Category Archives: entertainment

My Painting is A Good Bye

I can’t paint, my words,
like a brush, depict
how I see you.

Your eyes, almond shape,
glare at me as I walk by,
content with letting me leave.

Those soft lips, usually turned
up, slope down, “see you
later” pushes it’s way out.

That face, a window,
your thoughts, clear in view
say, “never again.”

My last strokes, your shoulders
slouched, hands out of view,
body leaning away from the door.

————————————————————–
It is tough saying good-bye, even to someone who did you wrong. Written in 2011.

Advertisements

Docked

Eyes locked through a crowd,
chains drawing us closer,
an ocean of people pushing,
our stare pulls us in deep.
Slow momentum opposing,
ineffective down currents,
inching together, hands raise,
fingers spread, then clasp.
Two ships docked as one.

————————————————————————-
A silly, cheesy little piece I just wrote that I may or may not work on later. 2017.

Care About More Than You

As the rain gently creeps down the window,
it becomes a metaphor of nature crying.
Can you help,
or do you ignore?
My friends, the birds, are lost,
the poor conditions made it difficult to soar.

Did you notice the terror in the trees
when you cut them down?
Maybe you didn’t care
that you cause so much fear.

If you would only take more than a glance,
you would see a refreshing hope,
but you never give us a chance
to use the environment as a means to cope.
Do you care about anyone but yourselves?
You’re not the only one to live.
You never answered our call.
Why? We never wanted you to give.

Look harder,
you could see a good glory.
It’s obvious you care about one thing:
your own story.

————————————————————————–

I wrote this in the mid 90’s. I can’t explain the way Henry David Thoreau’s writings expanded my mind, my thoughts. I read a soft cover collection of his works until it literally fell apart. I guess it reflects in the content.

The Rose and the Dandelion

A single red rose,
with soft petals, smooth to touch,
grows in the grass.

The blooming flower,
intoxicating to inhale, wafts sweet scents
on a summer breeze.

The green stem
proudly stands upright, displaying
a crimson glow.

——————————————–

A golden dandelion, has curled
a path, wrapped around the green stem,
up to be near the rose. Long golden

limbs held firmly, yellow and red
pressed together, to the exuberant
petals of the blooming Dame De Coeur.

—————————————–

I wanted to remove
the intrusive dandelion
from the glowing rose
but could not do so
without disturbing
the integrity of the rose.
I stood up, leaving
two flowers
delicately intertwined.

——————————————————————————————————————————-

I have been working on this one since 2012. I’m on a fifth edit, still not completely what I’m shooting for but close.

The Fire of Life

In life, we create the fire of thought. Sparks from neurons
create ideas, leading to the flames – our questions – how and why.
The answers inspire art, fun, war, and misery; all resources
to pleasure.

In death, we create the fire of life. Our bodies deposited deep
in the ground or spread across the surface, food for the bugs
and plants that rise up, help sustain existence. We are born from fires
below the earth.


A poem I have worked on the last couple of years, 2015, I’ll probably continue to edit along the way.

Portrait of an American Poet

Ode to: Jim Morrison

Portrait of a poet:
Maybe the Lizard King,
maybe black leather dressed demon.
He self implies that he has the “soul of a clown,”
who blows it at the “most important moments.”

Drugs, liquor, women, art:
the ingredients of a male artist.
Mixed with talent and a vision
he found fame’s way,
lost the sunlight of the day.
Art made of pain,
an addiction
the media driving him insane.
up rise — down fall,
dead at 27.
Art lives on.

His art lives on.

———————————————————-

I wrote this sometime in late 1995, early 1996. Jim Morrison inspired me to write poetry and start delving into art. At that age, he helped me deal with my mental health issues I didn’t know I had yet. Loved The Doors as well. Not my favorite band now but will always hold that place in my heart.

Phone Call

A broken, bloodied body,
delivered in the form of a phone call. Not
surprised, I ask about your current condition.
The reply, you are hung over in the hospital,
feet up, head aching, lungs too crushed to spew
venom’s that poisoned your gut. I wondered
when I would receive this spoken telegram of your mistakes.

This time, your actions were too inebriated to dodge
the bull of disaster, leaving you gored and lying
face down in a ditch; the ambulance arrived
before you became another matador statistic.
Two minutes after I hear you are stable, I bow
over my bed, hands linked, begging for,
more chances to see you.

 

___________________________________________________________________

Written in 2004 for a family member.