Sometimes in the early hours When we cannot sleep Our thoughts may turn to things That make our eyes weep Sometimes in those moments When thoughts run through our head We ponder on what happened Things done, thought and said Perhaps we may have Somewhere deep inside Something that may feel broken Which we choose to hide It's in the early hours That maybe we reflect Of places we have been And of people met It's not...
I pulled the last olive off the swizzle stick with my teeth and ate it before finishing off my drink. Looking up at the clock it, showed 4:20. It was in the AM, not the afternoon. It had been a long day. “I couldn't even begin to count the number of people at the wake,” I thought. Flipping on the TV, I found there wasn't much at this time in the morning, just talking heads, Infomercials, a rebroadcast of a Flyers vs Pengu...
I guess it’s in me somewhere, hovering, waiting, perhaps between heartbeats, or underneath my breath, hiding where it can’t be seen, but wanting to escape with me, go somewhere, perhaps over the rainbow where bluebirds fly. Sometimes, I wonder if it’s really there, or just a notion I’m supposed to believe like Santa Claus. Sometimes, I want it to speak to me, tell me it's there, hear it say you’re not alone, that it’s g...
Listen to me when I speak to you, tells you what you need to hear, whispers in your ear when others tell you what to do and you’re uncertain, on the fence, bewildered. Close your eyes and listen to me with your heart; trust me more than you trust yourself; know I’m your dearest friend, dearer than your wife, now ex, although she listened to hers more than you do, I’ll know you’re listening if you say, ah ha that’s a c...
Sometimes I’m in a jungle tripping over vines, shoving my way through bushes, looking for a path, wondering if there is one and asking with every breath where am I? Other times my mind is an eagle high above the trees and mountains, soaring over lakes, my heart filled with sky, my eyes searching for the nourishment I need, wanting to dive deep into the pools inside. So many times I wonder if this body I wear, this mas...
Am I a spinner of thread to weave a cloth of words?Are my words truths to share, or just my lies?Is the cloth so made an invisible cover?If my truths are lies, then what is their worth? Am I a fisherman dangling worms of words?Are my words of any use to those who read?Will my words catch that which I seek? If my words are useless why should I write? Am I some vampire fed by my word readers?Are my words building blocks?Wil...
CONFESSIONS OF A TROUBLED MIND This is no work of poetry, fiction – even though it might be argued that my thoughts are nothing but, - or even a happy hollow song that will get almost a billion views on YouTube. These few paragraphs I am about to write are nothing more, nothing less than my ideas, my thoughts and one might say, my feelings, freed from the chains of my oppressive numbness. I have no idea of where to start....
When the words cut off, my lips quiver with the thought of what else, I can say. As I pour my heart out all over this blank screen, I can't help but wonder what purpose I have for doing this. I don't even know what feelings I stir up with these words, these thoughts, these emotions. Just a knotted mess within this empty head, I follow one string, but it is stuck in a loop. I want to tell stories and not just some any old...
A lone figure by the end of the world I watch the sunlight dip below glowing horizons waves splashing onto sand of silvery white wind rushing like it has somewhere to go I don't. The bold waves breach my solitary confinement brought on by my own foolishness, of course another argument to store in the back of my mind bring out later on to use for my own nefarious purposes. The surf slithers up to my ankles, a chilly remind...
Today, the pond is stiff with ice and when I tossed a stone and saw it slide, not sink, I watched it sitting on the frozen surface and took a breath of the chilly air, surprised at how what rippled yesterday was now so still and new, changed by the weather’s way. And standing on the frozen water’s edge, remembering the huge typhoon that ripped so many lives apart a world away, I look out at the ice that came into my life...
Two ducks swim by my window, and I wonder do they love each other, or even know that love exists, and I wonder what it is that keeps their feathered lives so bound that every day they go from shore to shore together, so quiet and serene. And I see their tiny eyes looking straight ahead as they swim by and I wonder do they dream of better days living on this pond we share, unaware of me sitting in this chair with dreams of...
It’s dark here on the pond. For some, it’s the middle of the night, but here in these quiet hours before the light of another day, I take my pen and find these words that come to me from who knows where and scratch out what matters to me now, though I don’t know why and wonder if I care. I could stay asleep or sit here and be quiet like the night, but now I hear the wind outside and know a storm is in the air and as I lis...
Nothing that I think or feel is new, but now it’s mine to taste and savor, and as I breathe the warm, sweet air in this sunny room I think of ancient times-- times before history— when men, some young, some old looked up at the stars and moon with wonder and with questions, or watched that ball of fire, we call the sun, move from dawn to dusk, and in its light and heat, together, they sang songs of praise and gratitude. A...
Today, looking at this lovely pond, I wonder how we came to live here, together sharing the light of the ancient sun and at night, the moon and distant stars. And sitting here in these silent moments, before gathering wood for the chilly night, I look out at the trees, aging like me, and see their leaves falling once again in the autumn air, and I marvel at the orbits we have traveled to spend these days together, and the...
Dawn and the pond is still and quiet. Last night I saw the sliver of the moon shining on the water. It was dark and I was looking down, not up as if the water was the sky. But now, as morning comes and the clouds float across the pond and the trees, turning red and yellow in October’s air paint themselves on the water, I smile at their art, glad to have this dawn.
