Category Archives: poetry


I hate Shadows from the past

like faded photos


through passing windows

and opened doors

while being pushed by a torrent

of time

Flotsam and Jetsam

pausing for a few moments

in the tumult


before being cast across the broad Horizon

in these moments

hours, days, weeks or years

spent with an other

or others

are real and easily lost

in the flood

Immortality is the goal

people far wiser than I say

yet in the end

massive man made monuments erode away

script scratched on paper and colors smeared on canvas


genius electro-digital memories


endless ancestors and descendants become bone

then stone

If one is lucky

we scratch and build

rave, rage and burn

In chase

of some ancient

philosophical ghost

in the end of our gasping struggle

we miss the moment

the real

as all there is



All Hallow’s Night

My Bones remind me that time has passed

It seems like only a day has blown by

The calendar says otherwise

This night I look for the Moon

Hoping to see her dark form pregnant

There are within possibilities untold

This is the first full night

of the time between time

The space empty except

Moments, reflections, shadow’s shades and memories

of things that were yet are not

of things that are not but may yet be

This is the time before winter’s hard hush

When the cold winds  draw one in

Closer to the fire

to those moments yet to come

to one’s own moment of not

and of having had been

When I too become a shade or shadow

So in quiet reverence of the moment

of not being

I remember those who were

Their shadowy shade

In hopes that some day someone will do the same for me

When I was

But am not

The interminable wheel keeps turning

and she is always watching over us all

Always in the sky these dark nights

Always full of unknowable possibilities

Distant, coolly lighting our way


Through the unknown



Sometimes when I speak

the words come into the world easily

with clarity

Other times they hit the air in a rush like Jetsam

on a rushing river

and Yet again these statements seem to hit the atmosphere

like a meteor from Pluto

I find as I get older that it becomes more difficult to self censor

It could be a lack of energy

a weird exhaustion

or maybe I no longer care

I don’t think it maters

I’m just a squatter

on this rock

Strange as it maybe I find that I crave silence now more than ever

It was a learned thing


My words out of place

out of step

drew narrowed eyed glances

side wise stares

there was something strange there in those others’ gazes

as if they beheld something alien or irritating

It’s me, I tell myself

my eyes my senses that are the foler

The trickster

Still I try to conform

to simple social norms

Over the years I have gotten better at it


I relax

I speak

The words make sense to me

But for the listener, for the outside there is a shock

They seem as it they had been struck

by a board

the sudden realization

That the label really belongs where it has been stuck

That I am a giggler

I snuck through


But now with age

That thing that caused me ebaressment

that label of shame

now produces cosmic hilarity

I don’t know,

I guess you had to be there


Web Psyche

Standing in the crushing cold pitch

lightless night in grey soles


cool air breezes past the unguarded ear


thousands of voices indistinct

a thunder haunting with faint meaning

The pressure of a million eyes

unseen peering into ones hidden thoughts

I have to ask

about the soothing subtle nature of being human

something binds us in the ties and chains of the moment

lost in a sea of unknowing

we understand violence

cold fear, hate and rage

Love is nothing more than a sales pitch

We have the power of gods of a lesser sort

Like a child holding a gun on a playground

with more bullets than it can carry

we have armies, jet bombers and war heads


carrying death in our hands

The subtle ties talking darkly

or lightly

do we have to choose

between the piece

and the puzzle

can we not find another option

in the end it doesn’t matter

might still makes right

and on occasion

mutual back scratching may be involved

I hope the atheists are right

that there is no here after

imagine the surprise

when consequences exist for us all

as right and wrong supercede

legal and illegal

I don’t think any one will find it funny



My mind’s wandering wondering eye

Find’s its attention fixed

on dusty archives of life’s long lived lies

Memories’ faded photographs

tales, legends and lore as nothing is ever quite as it seems

countless voices like an over crowded aviary

clutter your thoughts

grandmother, father

grandfather, mother

brothers, sisters, friends and others

viewed through the warped lens of the moment

the foreshadowing of youth’s promised failures

you cannot know then what you know now

you can’t go home

you must make home where you are

find your place in the sun

or the moon

what ever that means


I walk between worlds

yours, his, hers, theirs

from the wilds to the city

they all belong to some one

or something

Yet I am lost


A shadowy remnant of what was

I have been returned

like a thing without a receipt

broken on the wheel

I have no place but the moment

standing on my own insecurely

But I do have a good view

The whole world to witness

and although I do not belong

I do have a choice

I can get the most out of the ride

Side Eye

We select what we see

with careful unexpected ill intention

shapes our expectation

so everything is as it should be

rather than what it could be

it is those haunted strange occurrences

that cause a backward step

hard heartless hesitation

it seems

in the final accounting

we hold others to a longer stick

then we do ourselves


There it is all about us

Thou we exist in the ever now

The past lies behind,

filled with those who once were,

some still here,

and those long forgotten.

Forever unknown

silhouetted in the dark

that still

shapes the floor under our feet

Still standing

unknown, unknowing

in a world long dead

Uncomfortable teeth from which we shuttered our fleet fear

Eyes cast fearful forward


self inflicted powerlessness

blinded by our own hand

left unable to shape a world made of clay

softened  by the sun.

A thing a child’s hand may shape

Without concern of the following day

We are prisoners of our own doubts

Our certain facts

Our self restraint

Wagging tongues lacking tact

Causing one to prefer

the critics corner

rather than risk the stage.



Not Words

We ordered dinner

in Marrakesh

in sign language

The language barrier created simple comfort


The illusion of quiet commonality

unlike the world of words

sighs and groans welcome

for there is a great deal in a not word

careful calculations

audio approximations

seeking to understand

what is being said,  could of said, not said

there are always other

words, choices, questions

leaving only

torn tiny torrent of torment

in the final cold cut notion

of being alone

the gulf of not said

loaded not words


Post Industrial

Welcome to my desolation

post industrial rust pile

cold home

There are others here

shades paler and darker

in the streets

as shackled spirit eyes

with out vision

Once greatness was here

it still whispers

from the dark corners

of any winter’s night

but we walk child like


empty gazes haunted

by impossible futures