Fisherman’s Dream

He sits on the couch
with the pain in his back,
concerned by the lack
of words reaching his mind
despite the flood he feels inside
A life’s worth of wonder dammed up
in a swollen lake just shy
of the medulla oblongata
The pressure
tangible and intense
but no sirens sound
downstream
Nothing is being released
The dam is strong, ancient
Created with great precision
The finest hand hewed blocks
of repression seamlessly joined
with blood and broken dreams
Only rarely a leak
to allow a few tears of
frustration to trickle
over the spillway and
down his concrete cheeks
If only he could reach
that lake of genius!
Pristine and deep
Full of frolicking
silver-sided ideas
Stocked without fail
year after year and
never an angler touched
Oh, he got a line in
from time to time
but only landed a
a few small fry
because he got scared
Scared of what he might find
in that icy deep, of
what monster might drag
him in and drown him
So he waits on
the high ground
Waits for the sound
of that first crack
when the lake can
no longer be held back
and releases pure rivers
of sparkling brilliance
to flow freely through
the dry chambers
of his mind

Mere Flesh After All

How sadly mortal
I am
in the grip of
great pain
How sadly mortal
and bent
wondering
where my cape went
Grounded
Pounded down
Shuffling around
How sadly
magnificently mortal
How heartrendingly human
I am
Standing
defiantly
with the rest
of the
damned

Ease Up!

Be a friend
to yourself
Everyone else
will be easier
and life more
pleasing
Seizing
one’s own soul
by the throat
every day
is no way
to behave
towards the
greatest gift
ever conveyed
The mistakes
we make are
human not
dooming
documents
determining
our worth
We all matter
equally
Ease up and
you will see

Sabotage

Funny what becomes
important when
avoiding
some other thing
which the day
before
served
to avoid
today’s
important
thing
Always running
to the out
throughout life
we extinguish
the light
of what greatness
might have been
were it not
for tending
so
many
little
candles

Untroubled Thoughts

The time will come
when all you have done
no longer means a thing
and your days
will glissade
away gracefully, a
waterfall
of
wisteria
draping elegantly into
the embrace of eternity
Effortlessly
And none will miss them
least of all you
So do what you do
with more smiles
than frowns,
look up at your dreams
more than down
at your feet
always keeping in mind

It will all be fine

Spellcaster

Wind and mountain
Cloud and rain
The silver spellcaster’s
familiar refrain
Sun and moon
and mighty hawk too
The owl’s sacred night
and fresh morning dew
Called from the heavens
or beckoned from below
Breathe the four directions
where the secret things go
Wandering the woods
Ever alone
His reality the trees
The rocks his bones
Far too human
for digital lies of
Currier and Ives
Facebook lives
Far too human
Not fit to be seen
One moment strong
and the next, weak
yet more than complete
in Infinity’s grand scheme
Unshackled from impressions
the wizard walks free

Peace

Silent joy of the dead
Unseen river sweeping regrets
through evening shadows
flowing soft from the stones
Theirs no more
Carried to the
wine dark sea
where memories
cease to be

Guest Writer From Paris – “Red Wine”

The Eiffel Tower
in my mind
attracts no
tourists so my
leap from the top
and the messy
landing will go
unnoticed
save by passing
squirrels, (ever
my tormentors eating
up my bird seed and
tomatoes), come
to snicker at my
demise and
Sting will
probably sing
at my tribute
because he sings
at every tribute
that pretentious fuck
Lauded far above
his talent, a bad
penny that keeps
turning up
but I guess I’d be
flattered all the same
in my mind where I
never really died anyway
and I’ll take a car
down the Champ de Mars
for an espresso
after the service
in my funeral
shined shoes
and frozen
perfect hair

Slapdash Soiree (or A Collection of Random Scribbles in One Act)

What do you do
with a funk when
it settles
on you
like funks do
and the world
is a rocket
racing away
It can’t wait
Nope
or so
the little man said
who runs through my head
starting fires
And already
the first heralds
of Fall are
in the trees
Rasping
Scraping
summer
from the earth
in thin layers
while they hope
for a pardon
from Winter’s
Marshal October
who’s just now
rounding around
the mountains
on his way
to town
And all I’ve
never known
and left undone
is buried in
the ground
breathlessly
waiting
the sound
of hooves