Still Missing

I can’t find
my gift,
the one every
man and
woman
is said to
possess,
that personal
chandelier
to swing from
that makes
life a
party
and work
feel like
play,
no, not today,
not yesterday
or days long past
have I
found it
and I’ve poked
around a
fair amount
so I write
and tell
myself
“yes, that’s it!”
to offset
the hell
of
wondering

No Map Required

For much
of adolescence
my destiny was
archaeology,
embracing a
certainty
that I would
traverse
undulating
blankets
of desert sand
reading
ancient scrolls,
reclaiming
lost pyramids,
and mummies,
and hordes
of gold
but now,
old . . . “er,”
I’m content
seeking
odd
little
stones
from creek beds,
treasure
redefined
by
time

1914 – Unedited

Here is some late night scribble. I haven’t edited it at all – just for the fun, (or embarrassment) of it.

 

Weep for the horses

All the beautiful horses
driven into service,
worn to death,
blown to pieces
to serve men –
stupid men,
ready for ANYTHING to die
to accomplish their ends,
stupid men
all shined up with courage,
the traditional veneer
of death
but the horses,
the beautiful horses,
tossed along roadsides
as casually as
bullet-ridden
canteens.

All the beautiful horses . . .
weep for the horses

Bane

A little
madness is
surprisingly
delightful
spread about
as delicious
quirks
across
many
but when
copiously
cast
upon a
clueless
few
it is
naught
but
malicious,
injudicious,
a highway
for hell to
afflict us

Summer Daze

Priming the old pump,
parched rasps of
rusted bone on bone,
a single bead
of sweat
explodes
in the
bottom
of my
bucket,
squinting
a query
to the
cloudless
sky I
realize
it is only
Tuesday

Beggar

If I had
a clue
I wouldn’t
be here,
I’d be
a seer,
living
my days
in a
cave
far, far
away
unconcerned
with what
you say
but that
day
is
not
yet,
I remain
a slave
arranging
words
for the
world to
weigh.
Judge ye,
am I
better
today?

Weather Vein

Tropical depressions,

we track their
tightening
expressions,

offering
no therapy
sessions
to stay
their
rage,

futilely
we pray
they’ll
turn away
and spare us
their
pain,

now
homicidal
hurricanes,
they
aim
to
claim
the sun
from the
sand,
a plan,
a demand,
to be
heard

Adrift

Once the
blog
exists the
obsession
rises and
sits
in the
pit
of the
gut,
the
seduction
of
production,
words
for the
sake
of it
as though
someone is
waiting
out there,
over there,
ANYWHERE,
daring
to think
someone
cares
but
forswear
the
notion –
you
are a
writer,
alone
on an
ocean
of words
born on
sleeker
hulls
than
yours