icymi, yes you probably did but I do not mind either way I do not force you to read but I like when you do I like when you take your time to read, to think & think about what might have sparked those words right there right there in front of you I rarely give it away I rarely think you still read I rarely think of you a friend a lover but just icymi I carry on
The low-hanging fruit of a year turned anew: shame and embarrassment is ripe for the picking. Not sure what is worse: the failing to write, or reading of words from other hearts awritten. Perusing your words was once a joy, as was the cold chiseling of words as art. But now, this day as every day I find nothing; no thing that will inspire and bring those moments back to life. My dawn is passed, and I meander towards the tree-line -- and the twilight beckoning
If I wrote โ of pleasures only
Words pleasing your sensitive skin
I would be mocked & branded liar
By those who know my nameIf I wrote โ of hurts & pains
Words cutting short your mundane day
I would be mocked & branded liar
By those who know my traitsIf I wrote โ through mirrors only
Words revealing the inner self
I would be mocked & branded liar
By those who know my faceIf I wrote โ for approval only
Words and expectations to match
I would be mocked & branded liar
By those who know my gameSo I write not of pleasures only
nor of hurts & pains though true
I shun the broken mirrors &
the race for ratings glory gold
I journeyed to Old London Town
My journey made out of necessity
To form a new life of innocence
Based on truth & adventureI journeyed to Old London Town
A journey left of righteousness
To meet the skeleton crew
Forfeiting oath & sanityI journeyed to Old London Town
A journey once twice taken
To sing the songs of old
Amidst the shadows achingI journeyed to Old London Town
A journey of one & three
A journey of one & one less taken
Between the one and me
& the men who spoke the loudest
spoke of death, spoke of me& in my absence men grew louder
became death, became me& with death and the becoming
they raged as I slept& in sleep I awaited
the endings of men
Tall tales of yesteryearโs
Iโve told them all
& these two fingers raised
a salute
a repentance
a wish
for better things to come
to those that remainablaze
freckles
freckles I say
freckles I crave& your lips I do recall
so, so, so many years agokissing
time mattered not
kissing & morefreckles, where did you go
& no moreno more & no go
no
no & onone & none
one & gone & alone & no moremissing Freckles and all I left behind
searching then & searching now
a hapless hack haunted by ghosts returningthe ancient fire of love scorching
come backcome back
...
An expression of gratitude I present to you:
Picture a tree not fully grown,
Ripped from the earth with little resistance,
Placed upon a floor of twelve men seated,
Space left beneath its greenish branches,
A void I am about to fill: pay attention.I go about my day gathering spares,
Discarded paper to collate my thoughts,
To express my deepest thanks,
For the reading; and thinking of thoughts.I go gently into the darkened night,
under a blessed moon and her howling eyes,
I wonder as I wander of possibilities:
the if only, or the only then.The thoughts thus gathred,
Collected and collated,
I ink on empty papyrus to stack,
Unwrapped under a tree still standing.An expression of gratitude; a thanks,
From me,
To you,
For reading this; and for being true to you.โ
It is that time of year when urges bubble,
The time of year I urge to clean.
The urge to clean and tidy-up around me,
That world I left to rot - unattended bleed.I find the empty envelopes in hiding,
The empty poems upon them writ.
Not correspondence yet admitted,
My secrets still kept - abled.It is that time of year when urges bubble,
When basic nature rules the mind.
It is that time of year when urges bubble,
Unbottled pops and oops alike
