Excerpts from my fourth book Almost Forever
Broken Hearts Beat on the Cold Concrete.
The nameless and the presumed brainless
lifeless on the Lord’s ground.
Wind roared, it didn’t rain, it poured
as they slept on church stairs.
The lifeless laid
without making a sound.
Broken hearts beat
on the cold concrete.
Wrapped in blankets,
mummies balancing on their tummies
without have a pulse.
Crowds of people walked by a situation
they tried to deny.
A sociological scientist reporting my results;
nobody helps.
Broken hearts beat
on the cold concrete
Clothes kept close as they wept,
accept, expect to die.
Wanting to perish next
to everything in the world they cherish.
Asking for blessings, silent confessions,
needles, bottle caps and syringes,
signs of lethal injections.
Pregnancy’s Trigger
Amy wants to be all she can be,
society won’t let her.
Confidence diminishing, she wants to feel better.
Has to make a decision,
with no 1 to listen, she decides alone.
Rushes to a party where she gets high
and gets taken advantage of by a mysterious guy.
Months later her stomach
is stretched out and swollen,
rolling down a corridor, her water has broken.
During the pregnancy
there was plenty of drinking and smoking.
The baby was born at a dangerous birth weight.
Amy is hoping it will heal, trying to deal,
the father in jail, however
he recently signed a waiver
to get out on good behavior.
Spent months dreaming of seeing his little girl,
wanted to return as the savior.
Wasn’t ready to meet the man
taking his place, it shattered his world.
Snapped, went on a war path,
wanted everyone to feel his wrath.
Thinking of the other man made him want to hurl.
Beyond mentally ill, at the point
where he could kill.
22 years of age,
corpse circulating rage.
His only reason for living is revenge,
like an animal let out of a cage, starving.
Encouraged to do the deed by convict friends, breed
with the type of heart that never mends.
Just got out of the pen, has no problem going back in,
being behind steel bars is better than having to feel.
The day has come.
Pictures his daughter
while staring down the barrel of a gun,
imagining the slaughter.
He parks by their house near the curb,
making sure he’s not heard.
Approaches the house, kicks down the door
and squeezes.
Dancing Golden Tears
Elisa was 15 years old
with a beautiful face.
When she cried, dripping down her cheek, dancing tears made of gold.
Tried her best, did all she could,
her family still greeted her with stares so cold.
Elisa felt worthless and no good.
Not allowed to express herself,
Elisa begged to be understood.
Mom picked out outfits, controlling everything that sat on the shelf.
Verbally and physically abused during her adolescence,
no 1 to talk to, no 1 to tell she needed help.
Elisa was never able to express the true emotions of her essence.
Eventually, Elisa ran out of things to say.
prayed and asked God for his blessings
as she planned her escape, it felt like the only way.
All her life she dreamed to be a dancer.
An entire family ridiculed
the meaning of her life. Elisa was desperately looking for an answer.
Elisa packed her dancing shoes in a bag and decided to jet,
leaving behind a note explaining the reason for her escape in 1 stanza.
Upset, she cried until sentences on the paper were soaking wet.
Elisa leaped out her bedroom window and ran after a dream.
Catching her breath, she stopped and stared into a sunset.
A love for dancing, many cannot understand what that means.
Left her family knowing
her soul might come apart at the seams,
Elisa never looked back, she kept going.
Elisa took a chance,
into a famous dancer she kept growing.
Her star now shines bright under the darkness of staged night. Elisa will forever dance.
I Follow My heart Down an Unknown Endless Road
I
must proceed forward
toward a destination that is uncertain,
going forward, step by step,
embarking on a journey that might cause great hurting.
This horrendous
tremendous force pulls on my soul,
I want to turn around, but
if I go back now
what I have been searching for
will never be found.
Without hesitation,
without reservation, I continue on.
Ignoring my inner voice and its opinion,
I walk past demons and devils
who dwell in dark dominions.
I don’t look back,
I keep my eyes focused on
a hopeless sight
as I travel down a road
cloaked in night.
Red eyes stare from inside the bark
of bare trees, abnormalities in the air,
cold, bleak.
I follow my heart forward
even though I cannot see
the shadow of my figure
or the ground
where I place my feet.
I follow my heart
down an unknown endless road, calmly
trying to create
confidence in my character,
wickedness whispering inside the wind
makes me wince,
I hear laughter.
I stand up straight
and follow my heart
to an unknown fate.
I follow my heart
down an unknown endless road, wondering
what will await?
Waiting…
Every morning at 6:35 A.M.
there is a woman who waits,
she sits like a statue
with the same expression
on her face.
She is extremely attractive, but yet
distracted.
Her head is always turned to the side, she stares
knowing what she is waiting for
may never appear.
So still, so silent,
it doesn’t look like she breaths in air.
Trees keep her company, leaves change
from orange to red, to yellow,
to branches that are bare.
Birds chirp, bees buzz,
this woman doesn’t put up an umbrella
in the rain.
Snow plows growl, shovels scrape the pavement,
from those same trees
icicles hang, as
she continues to wait
for a moment that never came.
She keeps her ankles with no socks
and her fingers with no rings
crossed, her palms press down
on a mysterious brown box.
People sit down next to her
she doesn’t acknowledge them,
she never talks.
The lonely lady sits on the bench
and continues to linger,
her brown hair blows in the wind
and on this little brown box
she gently taps her right index finger.
Patient,
contemplating,
waiting…
LONELY GIRL LOOKING OUT A WINDOW LISTENING TO THE WIND BLOW
Lonely girl looking out a window listening to the wind blow.
Sees her ghostly reflection as she stares,
gazing for hours hoping, wishing
to find something, someone that cares.
She sees a transparent image
of her own troublesome tears.
Lonely girl looking out a window listening to the wind blow.
Standing with frail fingers on her hips,
wondering if she will find the love of her life
that will change her world with a kiss on the lips.
Searching desperately for a reason to remain,
a reason to exist.
Lonely girl looking out a window listening to the wind blow.
The window gets foggy from hopeless breaths blown from her nose,
standing there for hours wondering
why she was not chose.
Looking like a statue
in a perfectly painful sculpted pose.
Lonely girl looking out a window listening to the wind blow.
She puts her fingers up to the fog and draws a heart
which is illuminated by street lights
pulsating in the dark.
She had so many plans for the future,
but never quite knew where to start.
Lonely girl looking out a window listening to the wind blow.
She stares with blurred vision,
nowhere to go,
room is a prison.
Lonely girl looking out a window, wondering why she is still living?
She begs for the world to see her, but for now
she pulls down the shade, wanting to remain hidden.
THE PREACHER’S DAUGHTER
The preacher and his daughter
lived on the campus of a monastery,
the atmosphere didn’t allow her to be unique.
Unaware she would stick her finger
down her throat after a bite to eat.
The preaching father didn’t bother
until he found out his daughter
did favors for a quarter.
Insides bleeding,
hanging out late in the evening
on the corner
of a street.
Left the house dressed in jeans and sneakers,
came out looking like Superwoman
after she hopped out of her pimp’s back seat.
A see-through shirt
and six inch heels on her feet.
Discrete and upbeat,
coming home looking flawlessly neat.
Felt the heat to make more money
working the beat.
Lost all hope,
you’re saying she could still be saved...
Nope!
Started sniffing lines of coke,
giving head until her eyes watered
and turned bloodshot red.
Men didn’t care let her come up for air.
Choke.
Addicted to drugs, fake love and
the feeling of hot sperm
trickling down her throat.
Hooking up, hooked on prescription pills
and ends the day with a puff
of marijuana smoke.
A FEAST WITH THE DECEASED
Ghosts gathering by a table eager to eat, figures that float and no longer walk on feet.
A supernatural last supper full of ghouls and goblins,
a spiritual situation, over dinner the dead discuss their damnation.
Those plagued with paranormal problems.
This is a feast with the deceased,
raise your glass to those who passed and give a ghostly toast, REST IN PEACE.
The air exclusively eerie, the scenery so scary.
As food floats, you can see it funnel down transparent throats,
as the dead break bread,
these horrid hosts, these grim gruesome ghosts.
This is a feast with the deceased,
raise your glass to those who passed and give a ghostly toast, REST IN PEACE.
The setting, unearthly upsetting.
On dirt from the cemetery they dine,
a graveyard feast for those who can never rest in peace,
they raise their glasses of wine dripping with slime.
This is a feast with the deceased,
raise your glass to those who passed and give a ghostly toast, REST IN PEACE.
Eating flesh from bones while sitting in thrones shaped like tombstones,
hearing moans as they munch, gauntly grieving.
Eating off plates inscribed with dreadful dates,
meditating on their mysterious meaning.
This is a feast with the deceased,
raise your glass to those who passed and give a ghostly toast, REST IN PEACE.
Dwelling over dessert, those who hopelessly hurt.
Bits of bodies baked into a cobweb cream cake,
they cannot blow out the candles flame until they are reincarnated with a new name,
fatally frosted with their future fate.
This is a feast with the deceased,
raise your glass to those who passed and give a ghostly toast, REST IN PEACE.
Dinner has ended, in the air these lost souls suspended,
Every moment is their last meal
and just like they were never here, these demons deceptively disappear.
Creatures without a care vanishing into the midnight air, these spirits set sail.
This is a feast with the deceased,
raise your glass to those who passed and give a ghostly toast, REST IN PEACE.
FOREST OF SOMBER
Lost
for quite sometime, inside
this forest of somber.
Left to ponder.
Left to wander.
This forest
once pulsated with life,
but the trees, the leaves and the animals
all started to die.
I know my chances
are slim
as I step over dead branches
limb by limb.
I wish to exit,
the way out, I don’t know
where to begin.
Time crawls
in the forest of somber
as I touch my face and notice
the wrinkles under my chin.
The forest of somber
rarely gets rain
except from sprinkles of sin
that shower its skin.
In the cold and bitter dark
I rest my back upon some bark.
I will ponder
until I find enough energy to wander.
Chances of my survival
are becoming weaker,
chances of my demise
are becoming stronger.
I dwell
in the forest of somber.
AUTOPSY REPORT
(cause of death)
I received the news he overdosed
and went to visit him
in a hospital bed,
tubes sticking into
every hole in his head.
Skeleton couldn’t stop shaking,
couldn’t talk, but recognized,
our friendship was something
drugs couldn’t even disguise.
Skin so pale,
wondering if he would heal.
Father and mother
grateful he survived.
Recovered and released from the hospital,
he tried, but got pried
back with the wrong crowd.
The sound of pleasure, too loud.
An inner struggle
couldn’t keep him out of trouble
as he was arrested
for heroine possession.
Suicidal
and drugs contributed to his depression.
Juvenile hall,
scheduled for a stay
from winter to fall.
A record, a release,
on his ankle for 6 months,
a mechanical leash.
For awhile he stayed away drugs,
but was still searching for love.
He met a girl at a party who
was heavy into heroine,
she took him back to a place
he had already been.
Under a chemical spell
they became lovers.
Tried to find a way to pay
for his addictions, but couldn’t
with a criminal conviction.
Looked for a job, but because of his priors
there was no desire to give him a chance.
Put his worries into the back
of his mind, living blind,
drugs, love,
the ultimate romance.
Received a call from his girl
that would his world.
He was thinking
about putting their relationship to an end,
now her period was late
and she assured him
it was not a mistake.
Drugs filled his inside,
but he was still filled with pride.
Wanted to give his child
all he never had.
Former life so destructive,
trying to be so productive,
he would never get the chance to be a dad.
The pressure kept building,
a 19 year old
who had to worry about raising children.
Trapped with a girl he had no feeling for,
wished they never met.
Nowhere to turn for help,
there was only 1 way
to forever forget.
Alcohol, weed, cocaine, prescription pills,
fully aware this mixture kills.
Overdosed again,
but this time there would be no return.
Pronounced dead on arrival,
there would be no revival.
Rests on his parent’s mantel
in a urn.
BLOOD COVERED WHITE COLORED DOVES
The scene serene
like a dream
not totally visible.
There I laid and there I stayed,
I watched while people prayed,
intelligently invisible.
I lay on a scaffold with rosary beads
and a pen to hold.
Warm hands touching this man,
corpse compassionately cold.
To me it was clear,
but to those who still breathe air,
not aware of my stare, still there,
soul in the shadows lurking.
I tried to please, the plight of the planet,
it left me hopelessly hurting.
For those who are still not certain,
for those who have lost faith,
death is a short sleep
in which you are able to awake.
Listening to wind chimes
as people stand in lines
coming to see this mangled mind
which they believe no longer operates.
I did not follow the angel
playing the flute, I took another route,
a masterful mute
who turned away from heaven’s gate.
The world tends to drain a person
of everything they love,
blood covered white colored doves.
ROSARY BEADS THAT BLEED
The life I lost, the divine sign of the cross.
In the name of the Father, Son and the Holy Spirit, Amen,
the pointless pain of slain men,
blood pours out of my pen.
Hands tightly together squeezed while on my knees with rosary beads that bleed,
listen to lightning strike as I recite the apostles creed.
Our Father let my art make it to heaven so my brethren know where they’re heading,
hallowed be your name, but we are wondering why you still haven’t came?
Give us this day our daily bread, if you can hear me please heal my horror filled head
and give birth to the dead so the living won’t die in vain.
Hands tightly together squeezed while on my knees with rosary beads that bleed,
listen to lightning strike as I recite the apostles creed.
It drips from my hands, blood mixed in with sand,
the same sand where Jesus left sacrificial steps.
Hail Mary full of grace, saying a prayer with blood smeared on my face.
Holy Mary mother of God in my final hour, blowing my last beautiful breaths.
Hands tightly together squeezed while on my knees with rosary beads that bleed,
listen to lightning strike as I recite the apostles creed.
Glory be to the Father, a prayer to make life a little less harder.
My physical future will not carry on much farther, my written word with no end,
it was bad back then, I pray for it not to be that bad again,
my brain, my mind, my soul, my spirit rise into the heavens and blend.
Hands tightly together squeezed while on my knees with rosary beads that bleed,
listen to lightning strike as I recite the apostles creed.
Every word that I spell, hoping they save me from a fiery hell,
save me from my sins, how much longer will it hurt me?
This feeling doesn’t seem to be healing, an angel ailing,
I beg you master, for your mercy!
Hands tightly together squeezed while on my knees with rosary beads that bleed,
listen to lightning strike as I recite the apostles creed.
Hail Holy Queen as I drag you inside my dark dream.
Those who have said early goodbye’s, I am stuck with their sighs,
forever stuck in my mind beyond the end of time.
My conscience forever echoing a cities’ cries.
Hands tightly together squeezed while on my knees with rosary beads that bleed,
listen to lightning strike as I recite the apostles creed.
Out of my eye falls a tear, the after rosary prayer.
To the begotten son from the forgotten 1, I beg for a response.
The message I heed as blood drips from my fingers and continues to bleed,
a holy bloody rosary that forever haunts.
Hands tightly together squeezed while on my knees with rosary beads that bleed,
listen to lightning strike as I recite the apostles creed.
Joyful, luminous, sorrowful, glorious, I write, then I recite.
In between my legs a cup of my own blood.
Falling from the church ceiling, blood covered stained glass leaves.
A prayer hoping to 1 day gain the Lord’s love.
Hands tightly together squeezed while on my knees with rosary beads that bleed,
listen to lightning strike as I recite the apostles creed.
WHITHER AWAY
Frozen in time while I impose the rhyme,
I’ve chosen to dine with the dead,
finally closing my mind.
Leaves blow blustery around my body’s frame,
please trust in my name,
rust covers the man who was slain.
The night sky is gloomy,
no longer does it consume me,
wondering when I might die?
The inalienable right to say goodbye as
I let out a light cry.
I pray the God’s protect me
and inject me with afterlife,
for me there is no other destiny,
look how little there is left of me!
Nothing left but bones,
nothing left that I own,
stillness, silence, moans,
sleeping on tombstones,
the secrets I learned no 1 else knows.
Eaten away by crows,
skeleton covered by clothes,
in both hands a pen and a rose.
Times are tragic, a man made of magic,
mental perception of a picture
that couldn’t be more graphic.
Snakes and worms cover my corpse,
they slither where I lay,
overhead the sky is bitter and gray,
death is delivered on this day,
I begin to whither away.
POWERFUL, PASSIONATE, PORTRAITS OF PERFECTION PAINTED UNDERNEATH MY EYELIDS
Incase there is no kingdom,
incase there is no heaven
where I get the chance to be a saint,
through my words I have created
a world of my own
with ink in my pen as the paint.
Incase there is no life
after death,
I don’t want to spend
forever in the dark.
I might not ever be able to
open my eyes again, so
under my eyelids I painted a portrait
of all that was in my heart.
I presume it will be lonely
once they bury me in a coffin,
mosaics of my mind
I will be able to view
while my body is deteriorating
and rotting.
My thoughts,
my journeys,
my visions
to ensure my life
will not be forgotten.
I imagine death
to be like a dream
where you lay in peace
and view fragmented images
of moments with meaning.
No matter how much formaldehyde
they pump in my veins,
they will never be able to wash away
portraits which forever remain.
Pictures of family who I have loved,
friends who I have specially selected,
great people in my life
who I have admired and respected.
Powerful passionate portraits
painted underneath my eyelids
to ensure beauty in the beyond,
the art which I have perfected.
THE OWL
Sitting in a cemetery under a midnight mist, pen clenched in my fist,
pondering my dear friend who had too young perished.
Wide awake from the moons glare, from my eye fell a tear,
directly down at his grave I stare, at a friend I greatly cherished.
Then, there was something, all of a sudden my shirt un-popped a button.
I heard a dog growl, I heard it howl, then I seen an owl who arrived and said nothing.
As I preciously recall, the owl did not make any movement at all.
Fog from the graveyard squalled, the horror came to a halt.
My strength was getting slender, you see, from the cemetery I wished to flee,
words walked off my breath, my friends death, was it my fault?
The owl’s behavior, it did not waiver, still stood the earth,
believing I might be the reason my friend’s corpse is buried underneath dirt.
Although I could not see past the fog’s blur, I was sure, the owl and I, alone we were.
I did concur, who in their right mind, while alive, spends time where the deceased reside?
Fly away, I plead! Fly away, I plead, but the owl did not leave,
indeed, I started to bleed and I felt like I might not survive.
I seen the moment my friend died. I cried and puddles of mud became puddles of blood.
The owl stared with his scowl directly into my eyes and extracted every ounce of love.
My soul grew weaker, the night became bleaker.
I wiped blood off my sneaker and said, what is it that you came to claim?
It began to rain, the pain driving me insane, I took out a lighter and with the bright flame,
in the dirt with my finger, I spelled my friend’s name.
As if the owl wanted to spite me, the owl slightly, nodded his head,
as the letters, C——H——R——I——S, out loud, I read.
Out of my lips, then out of the owl’s lips came the name Chris.
The silence had been broken, the owl had spoken.
Inside the owl, could the identity possibly be someone who was a very good friend to me?
Lost in the darkness of the night, fingers crossed tight, hoping.
The conversation I was having, a dialog I couldn’t ever fathom,
words that only I and 1 other poet in history could imagine.
Two souls who were boldly brave faced each other by the grave.
With a whisk wave the owl tapped his toe on top the tomb,
waiting with respect with what would come next,
under the midnight moon, we stood amongst gloom and doom.
The obdurate owl observed obnoxiously and obsessed,
the invisible imagination of the owl was noticeably stressed.
Chris, the name of my friend was spoken by the owl once again.
The evil eloquence of the owl’s comments made no living sense.
The owl stayed on top of the tomb where my friend laid,
there I stood, head draped with a hood, facing a mystery that seemed immortally intense.
It was killing me, but willingly and diligently I paced back and forth trying to decipher,
the night seemed so long, but the sky was not getting brighter.
Maybe again never to see the light of day, the owl’s fur ghostly gray,
quietly, it only spoke 1 word, yet it sounded so loud, the owl stood so proud.
The wise owl on a mission to make me listen,
both our bodies glistened inside the fog, it looked like we were floating on a cloud.
Please speak something else from your lips,
the owl’s wings flapped, it almost seemed to laugh, out came the word, Chris.
In a circle I started to wander and proceeded to ponder,
that this, my friend Chris, was unearthly upset and unable to peacefully rest.
Somewhere in the spirit world he was trapped, on the dirt, the owl’s shadow was cast.
Boundlessly and boldly off the owl’s breath, caring and creative, there was something to confess.
Did the abrasive owl appear in the midnight air out of anger?
Was my facade familiar to the owl, or was I a grave stranger?
Here I am! 1 man, in front of you I stand!
An explanation, a translation of your thoughts is what I demand!
Is your 1 word sentence part of your revenge or part of your repentance?
The span between our spirits is not something I quite yet understand,
I stretched out my arm in frustration and like it was on command,
the owl flew swirling smoke from the sand. It landed on my forearm, 4 inches from my hand.
What I observed ignited my nerves and made me want to vomit, amazingly astonished.
After the leviathan landed it lingered. Carefully with my fingers, I padded the owl on its peak.
It stared into my eyes and much to my surprise, the owl wicked and wise,
more language began to leak out of its beak, another word the owl dared to speak.
The owl moved its lips and spoke, still exist.
The owl moved its lips and spoke, still exist.
I started to speak, but stuttered, from what the owl uttered,
something amazing I discovered, the faint familiarity of the owl’s speech.
The sound of my friend, it seems as though I have heard from him again.
Now it’s an idea that’s not too far out of reach, but what was the owl trying to teach?
In the twilight I was receiving a telegram from a transparent man,
but what was the purpose of his presence, and did he have a poignant plan?
There I stood straight, the owl draped on my arm, not too far from the cemetery gate.
My friend who I thought was destroyed, now his presence, I again have awkwardly enjoyed.
Body tightening getting stiff, scene frightening like standing on the edge of a cliff,
a sign for all mankind that the vanished can come back from the void.
After the devastation of his demise, I looked to the skies, for this situation I have always dreamt,
an owl who flew down heaven sent because the owl knew how much it meant.
Back from an endless journey from all eternity my friend has returned to me,
back from the annals of astrology, back to accept my apology.
I hope you can still feel love and find it in your heart not to hold a grudge.
The owl gave me a little nudge and I knew this tale was a moment meant for mythology.
The owl’s look of affection, the undeniable connection,
to my recollection, there was no doubt this was some sort of resurrection.
My friend stood on my arm in his new form, attracted to the sound of a heart torn.
My stressed out spirit stained with scorn.
Not responsible for his death, was the message coming off the owl’s breath,
the pain from my mundane mind, could this be a weight I no longer had to mourn?
The owl let out a yawn that put me at ease,
all of a sudden there was a rustling that came from the trees.
I carefully scouted, and then, shouted!
The owl flew off of my hand, back on top the tomb where I first seen him stand.
Heavier, it began raining, from out of the darkness appeared a raven,
with it’s big black bold wings it flew next to the owl to land.
Then, out from the shadows appeared a second raven, who no longer felt the need to hide.
On top my friend’s tomb stood an owl and two ravens, side by side.
I could tell they were allies from the look in their eyes,
in the sky, thunder and flashing light, I stared at an unreal sight.
Cemeteries are places of death, but here tonight, you could feel the power of life.
Myself, the owl and 2 ravens alone in the graveyard, in the middle of the night.
Truly something to behold,
from the dead to the living, a message was being told.
The soft spoken luminous language of the deceased, helping us humans live in peace.
The owl moved its lips and again spoke the name, Chris.
For years I shed tears as my heart fluttered with fears,
that maybe because of me, my friend might not exist,
but that was a thought that came nevermore as 1 raven spoke the word, Lenore, ever so slow.
It took awhile for the second raven to speak, admiring my style, it spoke with a smile, POE.
AS THE NIGHT GOES ON
As the night goes on
I think about who has taught me
right from wrong.
Her smile glows
with a light so strong,
no 1 has ever lived a life
like my mom.
My mom has a heart
made out of gold.
Mom, forgive me
for not always doing
what I was told.
We don’t appreciate our moms
until we get a little wiser
and a little older.
My mom never had a place to go
when she was sad,
but she was the first to let you cry
on her shoulder.
As the night goes on
all I can think about is the life of my mom.
I wish I could hold her,
I could never pay her back
all that I owe her.
My mom has picked on a lot
because she was caring,
she lived a life that was so daring,
my mom was all about sharing.
Even when she was sick,
she would still be a mother,
as the night goes on
all I can think about is my mom
and how she is like no other.
When I was sick
she would treat me like a king,
whether it be day or night,
anything I asked for,
she would get me anything.
Do anything to make sure I was healthy,
her main reason for living
was to help me.
She would call me
to make sure I was ok,
it was an ordinary day
for my mom to go out of her way.
I am her only son
and she is my only mom,
I’ll never be able to thank her enough
for all she has done.
When people in my family fought
my mom was the first to bring them back together,
as the night goes on
all I can do is think about my mom,
throughout my life I’ll remember her ways forever.
I write this to you as a man,
I have my mom to thank
for all that I have and all that I am.
Mom, I hope you understand
how much I see you as a hero,
I’m far away from you now
as I stare at your picture on my bureau.
No matter how far away I am,
in my heart I will always save a place,
throughout my life
I’ll never forget your special face.
As the night goes on
I think about who has taught me
right from wrong.
Her smile glows
with a light so strong,
no 1 has ever lived a life
like my mom.
A LONELY LEAF FLOATING DOWN A STREAM ON THE WAY TO ITS DREAM
A slow fall as every moment
the leaf inches closer to the ground,
it falls into a river
and there is no sound.
The leaf burns with radiant autumn colors,
a fiery blend of yellow, orange and red,
it’s caught in the current of the stream
and downhill it is led.
It is violently pushed and pulled
and thrown off of rocks,
it goes on forever
and never stops.
There is no turning back
nothing to hold,
everything is moving so fast,
the water is so cold.
Leaves are supposed to live forever
but this one’s skin is
wrinkled and getting old.
It can not go back to the branch with its peers
and cover up the bare bark of a tree,
never again be part of a beautiful picture
people stop to stare and see.
It is gone
and no 1 will take the time
to put it back where it belongs.
Never again know the home
where it has grown
the place where it was in full blossom during autumn.
When you find the leaf
it will be washed up,
located at the rivers bottom.
For those unfamiliar the leaf
it’s beauty remains unknown,
wrinkled up and rotten, forever forgotten.
A lonely leaf
floating down a stream,
Eyes halfway under water, blurry,
barely able to see its dream
THE TOMB OF THE UNKNOWN WRITER
His life came to a tragic end
before we learned of the legendary man
who held the pen.
Why did he choose not to sign?
Masterful material
from a mysterious mind.
When will we discover what drove his greatness?
When will we learn what decided his fate?
His scripture, something to behold.
A man who wrote
some of the greatest tales ever told.
A man who knew
his end was near,
prophetic perception
that brings people to his grave
just to stare.
His name still missing, alas,
the tomb of the unknown writer
and his suspicious shadow cast.
The nameless and the presumed brainless
lifeless on the Lord’s ground.
Wind roared, it didn’t rain, it poured
as they slept on church stairs.
The lifeless laid
without making a sound.
Broken hearts beat
on the cold concrete.
Wrapped in blankets,
mummies balancing on their tummies
without have a pulse.
Crowds of people walked by a situation
they tried to deny.
A sociological scientist reporting my results;
nobody helps.
Broken hearts beat
on the cold concrete
Clothes kept close as they wept,
accept, expect to die.
Wanting to perish next
to everything in the world they cherish.
Asking for blessings, silent confessions,
needles, bottle caps and syringes,
signs of lethal injections.
Pregnancy’s Trigger
Amy wants to be all she can be,
society won’t let her.
Confidence diminishing, she wants to feel better.
Has to make a decision,
with no 1 to listen, she decides alone.
Rushes to a party where she gets high
and gets taken advantage of by a mysterious guy.
Months later her stomach
is stretched out and swollen,
rolling down a corridor, her water has broken.
During the pregnancy
there was plenty of drinking and smoking.
The baby was born at a dangerous birth weight.
Amy is hoping it will heal, trying to deal,
the father in jail, however
he recently signed a waiver
to get out on good behavior.
Spent months dreaming of seeing his little girl,
wanted to return as the savior.
Wasn’t ready to meet the man
taking his place, it shattered his world.
Snapped, went on a war path,
wanted everyone to feel his wrath.
Thinking of the other man made him want to hurl.
Beyond mentally ill, at the point
where he could kill.
22 years of age,
corpse circulating rage.
His only reason for living is revenge,
like an animal let out of a cage, starving.
Encouraged to do the deed by convict friends, breed
with the type of heart that never mends.
Just got out of the pen, has no problem going back in,
being behind steel bars is better than having to feel.
The day has come.
Pictures his daughter
while staring down the barrel of a gun,
imagining the slaughter.
He parks by their house near the curb,
making sure he’s not heard.
Approaches the house, kicks down the door
and squeezes.
Dancing Golden Tears
Elisa was 15 years old
with a beautiful face.
When she cried, dripping down her cheek, dancing tears made of gold.
Tried her best, did all she could,
her family still greeted her with stares so cold.
Elisa felt worthless and no good.
Not allowed to express herself,
Elisa begged to be understood.
Mom picked out outfits, controlling everything that sat on the shelf.
Verbally and physically abused during her adolescence,
no 1 to talk to, no 1 to tell she needed help.
Elisa was never able to express the true emotions of her essence.
Eventually, Elisa ran out of things to say.
prayed and asked God for his blessings
as she planned her escape, it felt like the only way.
All her life she dreamed to be a dancer.
An entire family ridiculed
the meaning of her life. Elisa was desperately looking for an answer.
Elisa packed her dancing shoes in a bag and decided to jet,
leaving behind a note explaining the reason for her escape in 1 stanza.
Upset, she cried until sentences on the paper were soaking wet.
Elisa leaped out her bedroom window and ran after a dream.
Catching her breath, she stopped and stared into a sunset.
A love for dancing, many cannot understand what that means.
Left her family knowing
her soul might come apart at the seams,
Elisa never looked back, she kept going.
Elisa took a chance,
into a famous dancer she kept growing.
Her star now shines bright under the darkness of staged night. Elisa will forever dance.
I Follow My heart Down an Unknown Endless Road
I
must proceed forward
toward a destination that is uncertain,
going forward, step by step,
embarking on a journey that might cause great hurting.
This horrendous
tremendous force pulls on my soul,
I want to turn around, but
if I go back now
what I have been searching for
will never be found.
Without hesitation,
without reservation, I continue on.
Ignoring my inner voice and its opinion,
I walk past demons and devils
who dwell in dark dominions.
I don’t look back,
I keep my eyes focused on
a hopeless sight
as I travel down a road
cloaked in night.
Red eyes stare from inside the bark
of bare trees, abnormalities in the air,
cold, bleak.
I follow my heart forward
even though I cannot see
the shadow of my figure
or the ground
where I place my feet.
I follow my heart
down an unknown endless road, calmly
trying to create
confidence in my character,
wickedness whispering inside the wind
makes me wince,
I hear laughter.
I stand up straight
and follow my heart
to an unknown fate.
I follow my heart
down an unknown endless road, wondering
what will await?
Waiting…
Every morning at 6:35 A.M.
there is a woman who waits,
she sits like a statue
with the same expression
on her face.
She is extremely attractive, but yet
distracted.
Her head is always turned to the side, she stares
knowing what she is waiting for
may never appear.
So still, so silent,
it doesn’t look like she breaths in air.
Trees keep her company, leaves change
from orange to red, to yellow,
to branches that are bare.
Birds chirp, bees buzz,
this woman doesn’t put up an umbrella
in the rain.
Snow plows growl, shovels scrape the pavement,
from those same trees
icicles hang, as
she continues to wait
for a moment that never came.
She keeps her ankles with no socks
and her fingers with no rings
crossed, her palms press down
on a mysterious brown box.
People sit down next to her
she doesn’t acknowledge them,
she never talks.
The lonely lady sits on the bench
and continues to linger,
her brown hair blows in the wind
and on this little brown box
she gently taps her right index finger.
Patient,
contemplating,
waiting…
LONELY GIRL LOOKING OUT A WINDOW LISTENING TO THE WIND BLOW
Lonely girl looking out a window listening to the wind blow.
Sees her ghostly reflection as she stares,
gazing for hours hoping, wishing
to find something, someone that cares.
She sees a transparent image
of her own troublesome tears.
Lonely girl looking out a window listening to the wind blow.
Standing with frail fingers on her hips,
wondering if she will find the love of her life
that will change her world with a kiss on the lips.
Searching desperately for a reason to remain,
a reason to exist.
Lonely girl looking out a window listening to the wind blow.
The window gets foggy from hopeless breaths blown from her nose,
standing there for hours wondering
why she was not chose.
Looking like a statue
in a perfectly painful sculpted pose.
Lonely girl looking out a window listening to the wind blow.
She puts her fingers up to the fog and draws a heart
which is illuminated by street lights
pulsating in the dark.
She had so many plans for the future,
but never quite knew where to start.
Lonely girl looking out a window listening to the wind blow.
She stares with blurred vision,
nowhere to go,
room is a prison.
Lonely girl looking out a window, wondering why she is still living?
She begs for the world to see her, but for now
she pulls down the shade, wanting to remain hidden.
THE PREACHER’S DAUGHTER
The preacher and his daughter
lived on the campus of a monastery,
the atmosphere didn’t allow her to be unique.
Unaware she would stick her finger
down her throat after a bite to eat.
The preaching father didn’t bother
until he found out his daughter
did favors for a quarter.
Insides bleeding,
hanging out late in the evening
on the corner
of a street.
Left the house dressed in jeans and sneakers,
came out looking like Superwoman
after she hopped out of her pimp’s back seat.
A see-through shirt
and six inch heels on her feet.
Discrete and upbeat,
coming home looking flawlessly neat.
Felt the heat to make more money
working the beat.
Lost all hope,
you’re saying she could still be saved...
Nope!
Started sniffing lines of coke,
giving head until her eyes watered
and turned bloodshot red.
Men didn’t care let her come up for air.
Choke.
Addicted to drugs, fake love and
the feeling of hot sperm
trickling down her throat.
Hooking up, hooked on prescription pills
and ends the day with a puff
of marijuana smoke.
A FEAST WITH THE DECEASED
Ghosts gathering by a table eager to eat, figures that float and no longer walk on feet.
A supernatural last supper full of ghouls and goblins,
a spiritual situation, over dinner the dead discuss their damnation.
Those plagued with paranormal problems.
This is a feast with the deceased,
raise your glass to those who passed and give a ghostly toast, REST IN PEACE.
The air exclusively eerie, the scenery so scary.
As food floats, you can see it funnel down transparent throats,
as the dead break bread,
these horrid hosts, these grim gruesome ghosts.
This is a feast with the deceased,
raise your glass to those who passed and give a ghostly toast, REST IN PEACE.
The setting, unearthly upsetting.
On dirt from the cemetery they dine,
a graveyard feast for those who can never rest in peace,
they raise their glasses of wine dripping with slime.
This is a feast with the deceased,
raise your glass to those who passed and give a ghostly toast, REST IN PEACE.
Eating flesh from bones while sitting in thrones shaped like tombstones,
hearing moans as they munch, gauntly grieving.
Eating off plates inscribed with dreadful dates,
meditating on their mysterious meaning.
This is a feast with the deceased,
raise your glass to those who passed and give a ghostly toast, REST IN PEACE.
Dwelling over dessert, those who hopelessly hurt.
Bits of bodies baked into a cobweb cream cake,
they cannot blow out the candles flame until they are reincarnated with a new name,
fatally frosted with their future fate.
This is a feast with the deceased,
raise your glass to those who passed and give a ghostly toast, REST IN PEACE.
Dinner has ended, in the air these lost souls suspended,
Every moment is their last meal
and just like they were never here, these demons deceptively disappear.
Creatures without a care vanishing into the midnight air, these spirits set sail.
This is a feast with the deceased,
raise your glass to those who passed and give a ghostly toast, REST IN PEACE.
FOREST OF SOMBER
Lost
for quite sometime, inside
this forest of somber.
Left to ponder.
Left to wander.
This forest
once pulsated with life,
but the trees, the leaves and the animals
all started to die.
I know my chances
are slim
as I step over dead branches
limb by limb.
I wish to exit,
the way out, I don’t know
where to begin.
Time crawls
in the forest of somber
as I touch my face and notice
the wrinkles under my chin.
The forest of somber
rarely gets rain
except from sprinkles of sin
that shower its skin.
In the cold and bitter dark
I rest my back upon some bark.
I will ponder
until I find enough energy to wander.
Chances of my survival
are becoming weaker,
chances of my demise
are becoming stronger.
I dwell
in the forest of somber.
AUTOPSY REPORT
(cause of death)
I received the news he overdosed
and went to visit him
in a hospital bed,
tubes sticking into
every hole in his head.
Skeleton couldn’t stop shaking,
couldn’t talk, but recognized,
our friendship was something
drugs couldn’t even disguise.
Skin so pale,
wondering if he would heal.
Father and mother
grateful he survived.
Recovered and released from the hospital,
he tried, but got pried
back with the wrong crowd.
The sound of pleasure, too loud.
An inner struggle
couldn’t keep him out of trouble
as he was arrested
for heroine possession.
Suicidal
and drugs contributed to his depression.
Juvenile hall,
scheduled for a stay
from winter to fall.
A record, a release,
on his ankle for 6 months,
a mechanical leash.
For awhile he stayed away drugs,
but was still searching for love.
He met a girl at a party who
was heavy into heroine,
she took him back to a place
he had already been.
Under a chemical spell
they became lovers.
Tried to find a way to pay
for his addictions, but couldn’t
with a criminal conviction.
Looked for a job, but because of his priors
there was no desire to give him a chance.
Put his worries into the back
of his mind, living blind,
drugs, love,
the ultimate romance.
Received a call from his girl
that would his world.
He was thinking
about putting their relationship to an end,
now her period was late
and she assured him
it was not a mistake.
Drugs filled his inside,
but he was still filled with pride.
Wanted to give his child
all he never had.
Former life so destructive,
trying to be so productive,
he would never get the chance to be a dad.
The pressure kept building,
a 19 year old
who had to worry about raising children.
Trapped with a girl he had no feeling for,
wished they never met.
Nowhere to turn for help,
there was only 1 way
to forever forget.
Alcohol, weed, cocaine, prescription pills,
fully aware this mixture kills.
Overdosed again,
but this time there would be no return.
Pronounced dead on arrival,
there would be no revival.
Rests on his parent’s mantel
in a urn.
BLOOD COVERED WHITE COLORED DOVES
The scene serene
like a dream
not totally visible.
There I laid and there I stayed,
I watched while people prayed,
intelligently invisible.
I lay on a scaffold with rosary beads
and a pen to hold.
Warm hands touching this man,
corpse compassionately cold.
To me it was clear,
but to those who still breathe air,
not aware of my stare, still there,
soul in the shadows lurking.
I tried to please, the plight of the planet,
it left me hopelessly hurting.
For those who are still not certain,
for those who have lost faith,
death is a short sleep
in which you are able to awake.
Listening to wind chimes
as people stand in lines
coming to see this mangled mind
which they believe no longer operates.
I did not follow the angel
playing the flute, I took another route,
a masterful mute
who turned away from heaven’s gate.
The world tends to drain a person
of everything they love,
blood covered white colored doves.
ROSARY BEADS THAT BLEED
The life I lost, the divine sign of the cross.
In the name of the Father, Son and the Holy Spirit, Amen,
the pointless pain of slain men,
blood pours out of my pen.
Hands tightly together squeezed while on my knees with rosary beads that bleed,
listen to lightning strike as I recite the apostles creed.
Our Father let my art make it to heaven so my brethren know where they’re heading,
hallowed be your name, but we are wondering why you still haven’t came?
Give us this day our daily bread, if you can hear me please heal my horror filled head
and give birth to the dead so the living won’t die in vain.
Hands tightly together squeezed while on my knees with rosary beads that bleed,
listen to lightning strike as I recite the apostles creed.
It drips from my hands, blood mixed in with sand,
the same sand where Jesus left sacrificial steps.
Hail Mary full of grace, saying a prayer with blood smeared on my face.
Holy Mary mother of God in my final hour, blowing my last beautiful breaths.
Hands tightly together squeezed while on my knees with rosary beads that bleed,
listen to lightning strike as I recite the apostles creed.
Glory be to the Father, a prayer to make life a little less harder.
My physical future will not carry on much farther, my written word with no end,
it was bad back then, I pray for it not to be that bad again,
my brain, my mind, my soul, my spirit rise into the heavens and blend.
Hands tightly together squeezed while on my knees with rosary beads that bleed,
listen to lightning strike as I recite the apostles creed.
Every word that I spell, hoping they save me from a fiery hell,
save me from my sins, how much longer will it hurt me?
This feeling doesn’t seem to be healing, an angel ailing,
I beg you master, for your mercy!
Hands tightly together squeezed while on my knees with rosary beads that bleed,
listen to lightning strike as I recite the apostles creed.
Hail Holy Queen as I drag you inside my dark dream.
Those who have said early goodbye’s, I am stuck with their sighs,
forever stuck in my mind beyond the end of time.
My conscience forever echoing a cities’ cries.
Hands tightly together squeezed while on my knees with rosary beads that bleed,
listen to lightning strike as I recite the apostles creed.
Out of my eye falls a tear, the after rosary prayer.
To the begotten son from the forgotten 1, I beg for a response.
The message I heed as blood drips from my fingers and continues to bleed,
a holy bloody rosary that forever haunts.
Hands tightly together squeezed while on my knees with rosary beads that bleed,
listen to lightning strike as I recite the apostles creed.
Joyful, luminous, sorrowful, glorious, I write, then I recite.
In between my legs a cup of my own blood.
Falling from the church ceiling, blood covered stained glass leaves.
A prayer hoping to 1 day gain the Lord’s love.
Hands tightly together squeezed while on my knees with rosary beads that bleed,
listen to lightning strike as I recite the apostles creed.
WHITHER AWAY
Frozen in time while I impose the rhyme,
I’ve chosen to dine with the dead,
finally closing my mind.
Leaves blow blustery around my body’s frame,
please trust in my name,
rust covers the man who was slain.
The night sky is gloomy,
no longer does it consume me,
wondering when I might die?
The inalienable right to say goodbye as
I let out a light cry.
I pray the God’s protect me
and inject me with afterlife,
for me there is no other destiny,
look how little there is left of me!
Nothing left but bones,
nothing left that I own,
stillness, silence, moans,
sleeping on tombstones,
the secrets I learned no 1 else knows.
Eaten away by crows,
skeleton covered by clothes,
in both hands a pen and a rose.
Times are tragic, a man made of magic,
mental perception of a picture
that couldn’t be more graphic.
Snakes and worms cover my corpse,
they slither where I lay,
overhead the sky is bitter and gray,
death is delivered on this day,
I begin to whither away.
POWERFUL, PASSIONATE, PORTRAITS OF PERFECTION PAINTED UNDERNEATH MY EYELIDS
Incase there is no kingdom,
incase there is no heaven
where I get the chance to be a saint,
through my words I have created
a world of my own
with ink in my pen as the paint.
Incase there is no life
after death,
I don’t want to spend
forever in the dark.
I might not ever be able to
open my eyes again, so
under my eyelids I painted a portrait
of all that was in my heart.
I presume it will be lonely
once they bury me in a coffin,
mosaics of my mind
I will be able to view
while my body is deteriorating
and rotting.
My thoughts,
my journeys,
my visions
to ensure my life
will not be forgotten.
I imagine death
to be like a dream
where you lay in peace
and view fragmented images
of moments with meaning.
No matter how much formaldehyde
they pump in my veins,
they will never be able to wash away
portraits which forever remain.
Pictures of family who I have loved,
friends who I have specially selected,
great people in my life
who I have admired and respected.
Powerful passionate portraits
painted underneath my eyelids
to ensure beauty in the beyond,
the art which I have perfected.
THE OWL
Sitting in a cemetery under a midnight mist, pen clenched in my fist,
pondering my dear friend who had too young perished.
Wide awake from the moons glare, from my eye fell a tear,
directly down at his grave I stare, at a friend I greatly cherished.
Then, there was something, all of a sudden my shirt un-popped a button.
I heard a dog growl, I heard it howl, then I seen an owl who arrived and said nothing.
As I preciously recall, the owl did not make any movement at all.
Fog from the graveyard squalled, the horror came to a halt.
My strength was getting slender, you see, from the cemetery I wished to flee,
words walked off my breath, my friends death, was it my fault?
The owl’s behavior, it did not waiver, still stood the earth,
believing I might be the reason my friend’s corpse is buried underneath dirt.
Although I could not see past the fog’s blur, I was sure, the owl and I, alone we were.
I did concur, who in their right mind, while alive, spends time where the deceased reside?
Fly away, I plead! Fly away, I plead, but the owl did not leave,
indeed, I started to bleed and I felt like I might not survive.
I seen the moment my friend died. I cried and puddles of mud became puddles of blood.
The owl stared with his scowl directly into my eyes and extracted every ounce of love.
My soul grew weaker, the night became bleaker.
I wiped blood off my sneaker and said, what is it that you came to claim?
It began to rain, the pain driving me insane, I took out a lighter and with the bright flame,
in the dirt with my finger, I spelled my friend’s name.
As if the owl wanted to spite me, the owl slightly, nodded his head,
as the letters, C——H——R——I——S, out loud, I read.
Out of my lips, then out of the owl’s lips came the name Chris.
The silence had been broken, the owl had spoken.
Inside the owl, could the identity possibly be someone who was a very good friend to me?
Lost in the darkness of the night, fingers crossed tight, hoping.
The conversation I was having, a dialog I couldn’t ever fathom,
words that only I and 1 other poet in history could imagine.
Two souls who were boldly brave faced each other by the grave.
With a whisk wave the owl tapped his toe on top the tomb,
waiting with respect with what would come next,
under the midnight moon, we stood amongst gloom and doom.
The obdurate owl observed obnoxiously and obsessed,
the invisible imagination of the owl was noticeably stressed.
Chris, the name of my friend was spoken by the owl once again.
The evil eloquence of the owl’s comments made no living sense.
The owl stayed on top of the tomb where my friend laid,
there I stood, head draped with a hood, facing a mystery that seemed immortally intense.
It was killing me, but willingly and diligently I paced back and forth trying to decipher,
the night seemed so long, but the sky was not getting brighter.
Maybe again never to see the light of day, the owl’s fur ghostly gray,
quietly, it only spoke 1 word, yet it sounded so loud, the owl stood so proud.
The wise owl on a mission to make me listen,
both our bodies glistened inside the fog, it looked like we were floating on a cloud.
Please speak something else from your lips,
the owl’s wings flapped, it almost seemed to laugh, out came the word, Chris.
In a circle I started to wander and proceeded to ponder,
that this, my friend Chris, was unearthly upset and unable to peacefully rest.
Somewhere in the spirit world he was trapped, on the dirt, the owl’s shadow was cast.
Boundlessly and boldly off the owl’s breath, caring and creative, there was something to confess.
Did the abrasive owl appear in the midnight air out of anger?
Was my facade familiar to the owl, or was I a grave stranger?
Here I am! 1 man, in front of you I stand!
An explanation, a translation of your thoughts is what I demand!
Is your 1 word sentence part of your revenge or part of your repentance?
The span between our spirits is not something I quite yet understand,
I stretched out my arm in frustration and like it was on command,
the owl flew swirling smoke from the sand. It landed on my forearm, 4 inches from my hand.
What I observed ignited my nerves and made me want to vomit, amazingly astonished.
After the leviathan landed it lingered. Carefully with my fingers, I padded the owl on its peak.
It stared into my eyes and much to my surprise, the owl wicked and wise,
more language began to leak out of its beak, another word the owl dared to speak.
The owl moved its lips and spoke, still exist.
The owl moved its lips and spoke, still exist.
I started to speak, but stuttered, from what the owl uttered,
something amazing I discovered, the faint familiarity of the owl’s speech.
The sound of my friend, it seems as though I have heard from him again.
Now it’s an idea that’s not too far out of reach, but what was the owl trying to teach?
In the twilight I was receiving a telegram from a transparent man,
but what was the purpose of his presence, and did he have a poignant plan?
There I stood straight, the owl draped on my arm, not too far from the cemetery gate.
My friend who I thought was destroyed, now his presence, I again have awkwardly enjoyed.
Body tightening getting stiff, scene frightening like standing on the edge of a cliff,
a sign for all mankind that the vanished can come back from the void.
After the devastation of his demise, I looked to the skies, for this situation I have always dreamt,
an owl who flew down heaven sent because the owl knew how much it meant.
Back from an endless journey from all eternity my friend has returned to me,
back from the annals of astrology, back to accept my apology.
I hope you can still feel love and find it in your heart not to hold a grudge.
The owl gave me a little nudge and I knew this tale was a moment meant for mythology.
The owl’s look of affection, the undeniable connection,
to my recollection, there was no doubt this was some sort of resurrection.
My friend stood on my arm in his new form, attracted to the sound of a heart torn.
My stressed out spirit stained with scorn.
Not responsible for his death, was the message coming off the owl’s breath,
the pain from my mundane mind, could this be a weight I no longer had to mourn?
The owl let out a yawn that put me at ease,
all of a sudden there was a rustling that came from the trees.
I carefully scouted, and then, shouted!
The owl flew off of my hand, back on top the tomb where I first seen him stand.
Heavier, it began raining, from out of the darkness appeared a raven,
with it’s big black bold wings it flew next to the owl to land.
Then, out from the shadows appeared a second raven, who no longer felt the need to hide.
On top my friend’s tomb stood an owl and two ravens, side by side.
I could tell they were allies from the look in their eyes,
in the sky, thunder and flashing light, I stared at an unreal sight.
Cemeteries are places of death, but here tonight, you could feel the power of life.
Myself, the owl and 2 ravens alone in the graveyard, in the middle of the night.
Truly something to behold,
from the dead to the living, a message was being told.
The soft spoken luminous language of the deceased, helping us humans live in peace.
The owl moved its lips and again spoke the name, Chris.
For years I shed tears as my heart fluttered with fears,
that maybe because of me, my friend might not exist,
but that was a thought that came nevermore as 1 raven spoke the word, Lenore, ever so slow.
It took awhile for the second raven to speak, admiring my style, it spoke with a smile, POE.
AS THE NIGHT GOES ON
As the night goes on
I think about who has taught me
right from wrong.
Her smile glows
with a light so strong,
no 1 has ever lived a life
like my mom.
My mom has a heart
made out of gold.
Mom, forgive me
for not always doing
what I was told.
We don’t appreciate our moms
until we get a little wiser
and a little older.
My mom never had a place to go
when she was sad,
but she was the first to let you cry
on her shoulder.
As the night goes on
all I can think about is the life of my mom.
I wish I could hold her,
I could never pay her back
all that I owe her.
My mom has picked on a lot
because she was caring,
she lived a life that was so daring,
my mom was all about sharing.
Even when she was sick,
she would still be a mother,
as the night goes on
all I can think about is my mom
and how she is like no other.
When I was sick
she would treat me like a king,
whether it be day or night,
anything I asked for,
she would get me anything.
Do anything to make sure I was healthy,
her main reason for living
was to help me.
She would call me
to make sure I was ok,
it was an ordinary day
for my mom to go out of her way.
I am her only son
and she is my only mom,
I’ll never be able to thank her enough
for all she has done.
When people in my family fought
my mom was the first to bring them back together,
as the night goes on
all I can do is think about my mom,
throughout my life I’ll remember her ways forever.
I write this to you as a man,
I have my mom to thank
for all that I have and all that I am.
Mom, I hope you understand
how much I see you as a hero,
I’m far away from you now
as I stare at your picture on my bureau.
No matter how far away I am,
in my heart I will always save a place,
throughout my life
I’ll never forget your special face.
As the night goes on
I think about who has taught me
right from wrong.
Her smile glows
with a light so strong,
no 1 has ever lived a life
like my mom.
A LONELY LEAF FLOATING DOWN A STREAM ON THE WAY TO ITS DREAM
A slow fall as every moment
the leaf inches closer to the ground,
it falls into a river
and there is no sound.
The leaf burns with radiant autumn colors,
a fiery blend of yellow, orange and red,
it’s caught in the current of the stream
and downhill it is led.
It is violently pushed and pulled
and thrown off of rocks,
it goes on forever
and never stops.
There is no turning back
nothing to hold,
everything is moving so fast,
the water is so cold.
Leaves are supposed to live forever
but this one’s skin is
wrinkled and getting old.
It can not go back to the branch with its peers
and cover up the bare bark of a tree,
never again be part of a beautiful picture
people stop to stare and see.
It is gone
and no 1 will take the time
to put it back where it belongs.
Never again know the home
where it has grown
the place where it was in full blossom during autumn.
When you find the leaf
it will be washed up,
located at the rivers bottom.
For those unfamiliar the leaf
it’s beauty remains unknown,
wrinkled up and rotten, forever forgotten.
A lonely leaf
floating down a stream,
Eyes halfway under water, blurry,
barely able to see its dream
THE TOMB OF THE UNKNOWN WRITER
His life came to a tragic end
before we learned of the legendary man
who held the pen.
Why did he choose not to sign?
Masterful material
from a mysterious mind.
When will we discover what drove his greatness?
When will we learn what decided his fate?
His scripture, something to behold.
A man who wrote
some of the greatest tales ever told.
A man who knew
his end was near,
prophetic perception
that brings people to his grave
just to stare.
His name still missing, alas,
the tomb of the unknown writer
and his suspicious shadow cast.