A failed poem

I didn’t think about you tonight,

at least until now.
Does thinking about how I’m not thinking about you count as not thinking about you?

I didn’t write about you either.

I have recently but not yesterday,
nor the day before that.
That’s weird, right?

You weren’t in my dreams.

Although I often didn’t dream about you.
Why dream when the real thing was better?

Your lips didn’t race my heart,

or my hands up your thigh in a heated kiss on a cold, cold night.

I’m starting to think that maybe your spell has lifted.

That the magic is gone,
or merely has waned to the point of non-existence.

Our story didn’t didn’t last.

I failed at writing this poem.
You never liked poetry anyway.

It happened again

It happened again.

There I was living my life and it happened again.

You happened again.

A rush back into my memory by a trigger of some kind.

This happened again.

Where all I can think about is you and smile.

What happened again?

Something reminded me of you and only the good times came out to play in my mind and behind my eyes.  Only the good things curled the smile onto my lips.

You happened again and I’m remembering happiness.

You happened again.

I’m glad you happened at all.

It only hurts when I remember how good we were.

It only hurts when I think about what we could have been.

It only hurts when I look in your eyes and see nothing where so much used to be.

It only hurts when you’re around so I have to leave you.

It might not matter but at least I’ve tried.


Have we become spread too thin?

With the Global-ocracy of all that we do we have no time to effect the things that affect us.  Has the world become too small and our reach gone too wide?

Think global, act local.
Leave local, live global.
Love global, snub local.

Have we empowered the pieces that control too much of us?
Have we fed the greed of men?
That voracious appetite that will never be satisfied takes us to the bone without thought.

Do not advocate for isolationism.  Celebrate the world.  Enjoy uniqueness.  Love differences.
But do not hold them so high that they are the mass that we are crushed by, hold them as the equal for which to strive.

I Can See Through

There’s such a population in the world that we can’t comprehend it.
A billion is enough to run the mind.
How about 7?
But how many of those billions can do what they really want to do?
How many are drones, like me, wasting time to waste time.

But I can see through it all
If only I could touch it

Rinse, repeat and rinse again.
Finding little joys in life to see the tunnel through the end.
Like me?
Live for the weekend and die through the week.
It’s not possible for everyone to live their happy life.

But I can see through it all
If only I could reach it

Do you even know what you’d do if you could do what you say you’d do?
Maybe that’s the problem that a lot of those billions face.
They don’t know which way they want to face.
Not like me.
I know how to be in that happy living space.

Because I can see through it all
If only I could mean it.

I can see through it all to the things I want to do.
For that happy ever after thing that we grow up with.
The meaning of making every moment worth a damn.
And not just wasting it.
Like me.

Because I can see through it all
but that’s all I ever do.

The Domestication of Every Day Life

I’m battle scarred.
You pushed your way out through the screen of the girls’ room window and escaped.
Did you want to escape?

We looked for you.
Up and down the street we walked and looked in bushes and culverts to see if you were hiding.
“He’ll come back tonight,” I said.

It was a perfect night.
The mosquitoes were having a feast and the horizon was painted with flames.
“He’s exploring, at least it isn’t cold.”

All day at the windows.
Looking in neighbors yards and echoing familiar sounds into the air.
“He’ll get hungry soon.”

Night two was just as perfect.
And I saw him in the bushes and he saw me too with a look of panic on his face.
He’s scared.

He cried and stuttered his jaw.
But he stayed just out of my reach and cried more as I lunged to grab him.
“Come here.  Come on, it’s okay.”

You’re so close.
On my knees I crawled towards him and he looked terrified and lonely.
I never saw so much emotion in an animal’s face.

I can reach him.
Stretching and falling into the bushes to grab his back and pull him to me.
He’s still so scared.

He didn’t want out but he’s not sure what to do.
There was no sound to me, just a firm grip and gritted teeth as he tried to escape.
I held him firm against me.

There was no sound to me.
But I could see the fear in his eyes as he spun around in my grasp.
His fangs were white as he was black and his eyes were as wide as his face.

I know I yelled but I didn’t hear it.
He sunk his teeth into the meaty part of my thumb while his claws dragged across my forearm.
I know I yelled as I dropped him.

The blood was bubbling out of my palm.
It pooled in my cup of my hand, thick and deep as water poured over it.
Both arms sting and are welted red.

Pressure from a now ruined cloth stopped the blood.
I could see the puncture wounds in my hand where he bit me to let him go.
He could have done much worse, but didn’t.

Wrapped right hand I ventured out again.
His food in a bowl, shaking back and forth calling his name.
“He was just scared.”

He wouldn’t come out again tonight.
I thought I could get him in the house but barely made it ten steps.
I am battle scarred.
He’s just scared.
He’ll come back.
We’ll do this again.
Next time I’ll be more prepared.


Poems and prose comparative to old never seem to to hold the same weight.
Talking of love and lust and greed.
It all seemed so new then, but wanting it now would be akin to long walks on the beach.

Everybody loves those.
Everybody does those.

We want to be unique.  We want to be pure.
We want to feel the feelings and through them be the cure.

How are we poets now?
Everyone has their words.

How are we poets now?
Everyone is so sure.

There is no understanding of the plight of woman or man.
We don’t use words the way we used to, now it’s video that holds our hand.
Yet the words written, or typed, hold strength and power still.
These words are burning fire to show the oppressed’s will.

It will come from bordered lands with fences high and sharp.
It will come from wombs and bills that voices will never cease

and never stop

The people will feel the passion through the words and never let up.
The people will be the philosophers and poets.
The people will be the people again.
Poets will be poets
and we will feel the words once more.

Tell Me

Tell me all the things I’ve lost because of doubt.

Tell me about the majesty and wondrous amount

of experiences I’ve lost and went without

simply because I went along the safe and easy route.

Tell me of my insecurities that caused worlds to slip by

Tell me of the flowers and colors not yet known to my eyes

and the hues of clouds above that float in different skies

simply because I’d rather not risk the safety in my life.

Tell me of tastes and sounds that I’ll never have, nor hear.

Tell me how the smells get sweeter the closer that you near

and the tastes, they taste, like tastes of fantasies my dear

simply because I could not overcome my fears.

Tell me of a life that I’ll never get to see played out

Tell me of the praise I’ll never get to savor as they shout

and each and every fan that I’ll never know about

simply because I wasted my life wallowing in doubt.