Next year; I’m going to decide: How Bad Do I Want It?
Scoff all that you want... but let’s think about it…
How bad do I want the recognition? How strong is the desire? Broken stems and petals that slide up and along the banks of Gave de Pau … what are we left with?
is it political discontent? choreographed lives? the middle of the end…? is there a culpable disease corrupting our brains and our nervous system?
I have yet to put my finger on it; but we are operating in an increasingly violent hysterical deck of tarot cards.
to think about what is outrageous now… as compared to what used to be hysterical?
I hate the cliché but no one sees the signs. and what is my response? to find a Maduro and a nice red … because I don’t think I care either. … perhaps - I am wrong to find possibilities under the rock, weary transistor wave lengths that tell us that hero’s are coming home or simply believing that the gods listen to my art.
I’m angry too. Bitter. Disappointed. In a fever pitched state of feeling… screwed.
America; you are going to find out that it may get terminal. You have to realize that unless you actuate the Leaders; we will die.
And Leaders? Let’s try and pay attention; this is only a one shot audition. Citizenship? We miss ye, we miss ye! Where is my tea party, Dammit!
Next year; will the Mets make the Series? Beat the Yanks in 4 shut out games? It’s extremely naïve of me; but why not?
Next year; start to lose weight… why not?
Next year; participate in a team building experience that actually depicts that we are doing this to receive a participation award…comrade
Next year; what bothers me about this year… I no longer care about. And if in particularly it irked me? I might keep in on the books… just to be honest.
Next year; submit I’m Ronnie Millsap, Bitch!!! to Dave Chappell and we become business partners.
Next year; my Country Ballad #1 becomes top selling country single of all time.
Next year; you know what I mean… make it my year! I’m due… I have that gamblers anticipation tying my stomach in knots… this year… you know what I’m talking about? This year, the way we mean RIGHT NOW, when yelling at the kids, the niece or nephew, the dog or the 911 assistant. I’m j-j-just saying that if it isn’t this year; then I wonder when? Know what I mean? good old buddy old pal Next Year? … a couple of near misses this year… but next year; some of my hopes and dreams… I don’t need to be Max Bruch, a little sunshine on my shoulder… you know, those times when you don’t know that the time is ticking away…as it was when… we… didn’t… know…better.
Next year; more fully learn the line ‘sweet scenes from my youth, seat of comfort and truth’
Next year razz ma tazz - razz ma tazz - razz ma tazz
Next year; drink a beer to Nancy Wilson… when did you leave heaven, angel mine?
Next year; what is old hateful long suffering that I have been unable to find a way to let it go, would you help me?
Hey Next year; and If I didn’t know what I did?? will you forgive me?
Next year; allow for some randomness… and protect everybody.
and if I left anything out… remind me about it next year…
December 31, 2007
© 2007 woundedlordliterature
ШАМРО
when using my cliché
early before dawn, hen’s start peckin
rooster crowin, my blues get goin
my song I’m singin, leads me to the water
under that longing sky, sunrise and sunset
ends where one begins; and for a second
I can see it
and with Kerouac’s godly finger pointed
straight to me and saying…
‘go boy, go! roll your bones!’
all possibility balancing on the end of a baseball bat
saying, take it, try and take it…and I hesitate…
(when you are young, you preach your beliefs
like a loaded canon weighted in proof readers blues
welcoming all to that table, take a slice; how is it?
tastes real; because it is, as real as its ever gets to be
…for that moment… you see it
and once that moment passes late in a staircase not wanting to go home
wrapped in trance that can leave well enough alone
you feel that welcoming again to the table; how is it?
hurts real; because it is, as real as its ever gets to be
…for that moment… you see it
a moments memory is today’s aperitif with leavened bread
the destiny that expectations sweep under the rugs
the mind is willing yet the heart devours insatiable pride
one worth of regret steeped in hardened alibi
that place that lands … character)
I want all my failures back, not to keep but to now show that I could get a passing grade
then apologize for then being in so over my head
I don’t want to blame anyone else for anything anymore
hey, I made choices too… everybody does…
we’ll own up to them together…
when using my cliché I stumbled on my old name and number
so I wondered; how’m I doin? and I go to make a reservation…
welcoming all to the table, take a slice; how is it?
and it tastes real; because it is, as real as its ever gonna be
and it hurts real; because it is; sunrise and sunset
… ends where one begins… for that moment… I see it
December 24, 2007
© woundedlordliterature
ШАМРО
rooster crowin, my blues get goin
my song I’m singin, leads me to the water
under that longing sky, sunrise and sunset
ends where one begins; and for a second
I can see it
and with Kerouac’s godly finger pointed
straight to me and saying…
‘go boy, go! roll your bones!’
all possibility balancing on the end of a baseball bat
saying, take it, try and take it…and I hesitate…
(when you are young, you preach your beliefs
like a loaded canon weighted in proof readers blues
welcoming all to that table, take a slice; how is it?
tastes real; because it is, as real as its ever gets to be
…for that moment… you see it
and once that moment passes late in a staircase not wanting to go home
wrapped in trance that can leave well enough alone
you feel that welcoming again to the table; how is it?
hurts real; because it is, as real as its ever gets to be
…for that moment… you see it
a moments memory is today’s aperitif with leavened bread
the destiny that expectations sweep under the rugs
the mind is willing yet the heart devours insatiable pride
one worth of regret steeped in hardened alibi
that place that lands … character)
I want all my failures back, not to keep but to now show that I could get a passing grade
then apologize for then being in so over my head
I don’t want to blame anyone else for anything anymore
hey, I made choices too… everybody does…
we’ll own up to them together…
when using my cliché I stumbled on my old name and number
so I wondered; how’m I doin? and I go to make a reservation…
welcoming all to the table, take a slice; how is it?
and it tastes real; because it is, as real as its ever gonna be
and it hurts real; because it is; sunrise and sunset
… ends where one begins… for that moment… I see it
December 24, 2007
© woundedlordliterature
ШАМРО
NIGHT
The sun descending in the west,
The evening star does shine;
The birds are silent in their nest,
And I must seek for mine.
The moon, like a flower
In heaven's high bower,
With silent delight,
Sits and smiles on the night.
Farewell, green fields and happy grove,
Where flocks have ta'en delight.
Where lambs have nibbled, silent move
The feet of angels bright;
Unseen they pour blessing,
And joy without ceasing,
On each bud and blossom,
And each sleeping bosom.
They look in every thoughtless nest
Where birds are covered warm;
They visit caves of every beast,
To keep them all from harm:
If they see any weeping
That should have been sleeping,
They pour sleep on their head,
And sit down by their bed.
When wolves and tigers howl for prey,
They pitying stand and weep;
Seeking to drive their thirst away,
And keep them from the sheep.
But, if they rush dreadful,
The angels, most heedful,
Receive each mild spirit,
New worlds to inherit.
And there the lion's ruddy eyes
Shall flow with tears of gold:
And pitying the tender cries,
And walking round the fold:
Saying: "Wrath by His meekness,
And, by His health, sickness,
Are driven away
From our immortal day.
"And now beside thee, bleating lamb,
I can lie down and sleep,
Or think on Him who bore thy name,
Graze after thee, and weep.
For, washed in life's river,
My bright mane for ever
Shall shine like the gold,
As I guard o'er the fold."
William Blake
(November 28, 1757 - August 12, 1827)
The evening star does shine;
The birds are silent in their nest,
And I must seek for mine.
The moon, like a flower
In heaven's high bower,
With silent delight,
Sits and smiles on the night.
Farewell, green fields and happy grove,
Where flocks have ta'en delight.
Where lambs have nibbled, silent move
The feet of angels bright;
Unseen they pour blessing,
And joy without ceasing,
On each bud and blossom,
And each sleeping bosom.
They look in every thoughtless nest
Where birds are covered warm;
They visit caves of every beast,
To keep them all from harm:
If they see any weeping
That should have been sleeping,
They pour sleep on their head,
And sit down by their bed.
When wolves and tigers howl for prey,
They pitying stand and weep;
Seeking to drive their thirst away,
And keep them from the sheep.
But, if they rush dreadful,
The angels, most heedful,
Receive each mild spirit,
New worlds to inherit.
And there the lion's ruddy eyes
Shall flow with tears of gold:
And pitying the tender cries,
And walking round the fold:
Saying: "Wrath by His meekness,
And, by His health, sickness,
Are driven away
From our immortal day.
"And now beside thee, bleating lamb,
I can lie down and sleep,
Or think on Him who bore thy name,
Graze after thee, and weep.
For, washed in life's river,
My bright mane for ever
Shall shine like the gold,
As I guard o'er the fold."
William Blake
(November 28, 1757 - August 12, 1827)
Waited for Dawn
its been a long time
and I’ve been on that shoreline
not waiting for a damn thing
other than myself
these thanksgivings
that come and go
what have they done to me
under these folded shoulders
dancing under the swoon
frost this morning
and dreams so vivid
I thought it must be true
the inspired stop to tell me
their feelings of recourse
I can only respond with
my feelings of discourse
had it been all that romantic?
stealing the gifts of others
hadn't I been turned away
hasn’t my heart already been broken
thousands and thousands of times
haven’t they all disappointed me still
and wouldn’t they say; they were fooled
by me
is my cheek so hollowed now to hide
a mansion on the hill
or is my heart so hardened now to hold
all love at bay
what did I gain dreaming at the bayou
or drunken in run down shacks
did single motherhood deter me
or the shame of my desert
I have come to much
in the years since I was young
what do I despair from all that time
the songs I wish I’d sung
November 22, 2007
© 2007 woundedlordliterature
ШАМРО
and I’ve been on that shoreline
not waiting for a damn thing
other than myself
these thanksgivings
that come and go
what have they done to me
under these folded shoulders
dancing under the swoon
frost this morning
and dreams so vivid
I thought it must be true
the inspired stop to tell me
their feelings of recourse
I can only respond with
my feelings of discourse
had it been all that romantic?
stealing the gifts of others
hadn't I been turned away
hasn’t my heart already been broken
thousands and thousands of times
haven’t they all disappointed me still
and wouldn’t they say; they were fooled
by me
is my cheek so hollowed now to hide
a mansion on the hill
or is my heart so hardened now to hold
all love at bay
what did I gain dreaming at the bayou
or drunken in run down shacks
did single motherhood deter me
or the shame of my desert
I have come to much
in the years since I was young
what do I despair from all that time
the songs I wish I’d sung
November 22, 2007
© 2007 woundedlordliterature
ШАМРО
November Eves
November Evenings! Damp and still
They used to cloak Leckhampton hill,
And lie down close on the grey plain,
And dim the dripping window-pane,
And send queer winds like Harlequins
That seized our elms for violins
And struck a note so sharp and low
Even a child could feel the woe.
Now fire chased shadow round the room;
Tables and chairs grew vast in gloom:
We crept about like mice, while Nurse
Sat mending, solemn as a hearse,
And even our unlearned eyes
Half closed with choking memories.
Is it the mist or the dead leaves,
Or the dead men—November eves?
James Elroy Flecker
They used to cloak Leckhampton hill,
And lie down close on the grey plain,
And dim the dripping window-pane,
And send queer winds like Harlequins
That seized our elms for violins
And struck a note so sharp and low
Even a child could feel the woe.
Now fire chased shadow round the room;
Tables and chairs grew vast in gloom:
We crept about like mice, while Nurse
Sat mending, solemn as a hearse,
And even our unlearned eyes
Half closed with choking memories.
Is it the mist or the dead leaves,
Or the dead men—November eves?
James Elroy Flecker
October 17, 2007
rain makes memory
sober jewels rest
something of discontent rattles a chain
against rapport gushing genuine
its a broken sky
yesterday I stepped upon a magnolia
leaf on the ground
there is a statue of Pan
holding a naked woman
in the courtyard
it's solitude and it is not painful
as much as it is unusual
today is the ending of one cycle
tomorrow is the beginning of something new
I nod off and become enlightened
that perfection is only a state of mind
not the completion or the complexity
of any one thought
I keep reminding myself of the phrase
"someday you'll know..."
for me October and Florida are intertwined
not as a migration or the soul's end
I am listening to that metaphysical cord
telling me, it will all be fine
I reluctantly agree.
October 17, 2007
Miami, FL
© 2007 woundedlordliterature
ШAMPO
sober jewels rest
something of discontent rattles a chain
against rapport gushing genuine
its a broken sky
yesterday I stepped upon a magnolia
leaf on the ground
there is a statue of Pan
holding a naked woman
in the courtyard
it's solitude and it is not painful
as much as it is unusual
today is the ending of one cycle
tomorrow is the beginning of something new
I nod off and become enlightened
that perfection is only a state of mind
not the completion or the complexity
of any one thought
I keep reminding myself of the phrase
"someday you'll know..."
for me October and Florida are intertwined
not as a migration or the soul's end
I am listening to that metaphysical cord
telling me, it will all be fine
I reluctantly agree.
October 17, 2007
Miami, FL
© 2007 woundedlordliterature
ШAMPO
The Philosophy of a Broken Neck (SCBW 2007)
rereading Bukowski’s
“through the streets of anywhere”
I marked a page of this old book
because of a line that astounded me
to a bitter reconciliation
“…frozen like God’s head
holding an apple in the window”
it’s like murder in threefold
a million and one years have passed
by since memory
of blue chairs & linoleum
echoed as orange sliding
partitions pillowed my soul
I have forgotten as much as I knew
then ole Solitude Cowboy, buddy
o’ mine
you slip in and out of my fantasy
like the peerless gate you guard
I am not singular, nor dualistic
my heart’s phantoms have given
way to sincerer venues
I wonder, at this moment, what
St. Augustine thinks of being a blade
of grass
summer ends and debutantes
lose their tiaras
I want to be a Moorish Orpheus
wandering about in a golden robe
singing my song for you
a linear love dressed as a shield
somewhere in that long ago
brittle from the cold
bereft of delusion
the quiet empty monotone
steps in the snow
gladly welcomed me
not as a shadow of a ghost
or an addendum to failure
nor as a mystic pirate
loosed from the sea
as a gentleman in an unkind
time; bracing for a metaphoric
awakening, stunned,
to design a blind watchmaker’s
sonnet
ШAMPO
“through the streets of anywhere”
I marked a page of this old book
because of a line that astounded me
to a bitter reconciliation
“…frozen like God’s head
holding an apple in the window”
it’s like murder in threefold
a million and one years have passed
by since memory
of blue chairs & linoleum
echoed as orange sliding
partitions pillowed my soul
I have forgotten as much as I knew
then ole Solitude Cowboy, buddy
o’ mine
you slip in and out of my fantasy
like the peerless gate you guard
I am not singular, nor dualistic
my heart’s phantoms have given
way to sincerer venues
I wonder, at this moment, what
St. Augustine thinks of being a blade
of grass
summer ends and debutantes
lose their tiaras
I want to be a Moorish Orpheus
wandering about in a golden robe
singing my song for you
a linear love dressed as a shield
somewhere in that long ago
brittle from the cold
bereft of delusion
the quiet empty monotone
steps in the snow
gladly welcomed me
not as a shadow of a ghost
or an addendum to failure
nor as a mystic pirate
loosed from the sea
as a gentleman in an unkind
time; bracing for a metaphoric
awakening, stunned,
to design a blind watchmaker’s
sonnet
October 15, 2007
Miami, FL
© 2007 woundedlordliterature
ШAMPO
Strawberry Fields Forever
Let me take you down
cause I'm going to strawberry fields
Nothing is real
and nothing to get hung about
Strawberry fields forever
Living is easy with eyes closed
Misunderstanding all you see
It's getting hard to be someone
but it all works out
It doesn't matter much to me
Let me take you down
cause I'm going to strawberry fields
Nothing is real
and nothing to get hung about
Strawberry fields forever
No one I think is in my tree
I mean it must be high or low
That is you can't, you know, tune in
but it's all right
That is I think it's not too bad
Let me take you down
cause I'm going to strawberry fields
Nothing is real
and nothing to get hung about
Strawberry fields forever
Always know sometimes think it's me
But you know I know when it's a dream
I think I know of Thee,
ah yes but it's all wrong
that is I think I disagree
Let me take you down
cause I'm going to strawberry fields
Nothing is real
and nothing to get hung about
Strawberry fields forever
Strawberry fields forever
strawberry fields forever
Lennon/McCartney
John Lennon
October 9, 1940 - December 8, 1980
cause I'm going to strawberry fields
Nothing is real
and nothing to get hung about
Strawberry fields forever
Living is easy with eyes closed
Misunderstanding all you see
It's getting hard to be someone
but it all works out
It doesn't matter much to me
Let me take you down
cause I'm going to strawberry fields
Nothing is real
and nothing to get hung about
Strawberry fields forever
No one I think is in my tree
I mean it must be high or low
That is you can't, you know, tune in
but it's all right
That is I think it's not too bad
Let me take you down
cause I'm going to strawberry fields
Nothing is real
and nothing to get hung about
Strawberry fields forever
Always know sometimes think it's me
But you know I know when it's a dream
I think I know of Thee,
ah yes but it's all wrong
that is I think I disagree
Let me take you down
cause I'm going to strawberry fields
Nothing is real
and nothing to get hung about
Strawberry fields forever
Strawberry fields forever
strawberry fields forever
Lennon/McCartney
John Lennon
October 9, 1940 - December 8, 1980
Wine Dark Sea
I.
deliberate
obfuscate
there was a time
but not today
its been more than twenty years
and don’t you know
that there are more meaningful reasons
dressing in the moonlight
II.
looking into the fold;
fingers fumbling with
fishing string mending a net
to toss into the
wine dark sea
my room is dark
my tea is black
my ship to shore
to wit; teaming
why don’t it just come to fruition
sing a lovely song to break
the silence or run the gamete
take me out of it
I used to think that I could understand anything
that was put in front of me
that genius was a given
and that magic
flowed from my heart’s heart
and I sat snidely on the outskirts
chiming in with a penny
and at quarter to four
drunk with zeitgeist
and yet still; liars come to lie
and yet still; believers come to believe
traced among the fraternal paths
I can neither start nor stop
III.
to where am I wading into
to what am I waiting for
no one ever changes their soul
they only save themselves with sentiment
landlocked in their fits; dreamt in passionate
I saw dawn once, before anyone in America was able to see it
with few exception, while still in country
enlightenment shaking its stick, nudging silent and willful
I resolved, man is simply the dumbest of all the animals
only we; want more than we need
IV.
a combination to take the subjectivity
and put it in a paper cup to drink
passivity that quenches the sadistic
combs the solitude
while attempting to sleep
following two lines to their center of the universe
or to at least the very edge of time and space
the cataclysmic happens
and true meridian and nautical miles compress
stanzas joyous of their hearth and bearings intersect
north by northwest, drift 7° - starboard
while the sun broke over the mountain top
falling slowly flowing gently a river of light
that eddies against the roving rocks
with shameful intimacy
V.
I decided that I didn’t know you anymore
to push off into the ocean and to search for the devil
to tear out every page of every book I have read
to rip and burn every page I had ever written
and walk out on the plank while the tempest swirling,
rampaging and the main sail shredding I would find
a chantey to memorize; a song I could return to myself
what then happened; I didn’t expect
I would turn the sail east to search for the mountains
no fears of the abominable or tears of the inconsolable
Odysseus was going mad and there was this girl, yet
paced wonderfully in its ruse, the bora brought me
I wandered around back to the Adriatic
shores…safe and sound
we had sunken and killed thousands
the Black Sea; the Aegean was drenched
sobered I could war no more
my bread was dusty, my canteen spoilt
sirens, harpies yeah, but Phineas played Sweet and Lovely
and I found myself back on St. Christopher Street
it was the first time I thought; I could be wrong
was it the harpies getting to me or Zorba’s santuri?
august ramped up and equilibrated I looked
west to the setting sun and when I reached
water’s edge I remembered that the
world is flat after all and I had better get used to it
or the best for the best; wasn’t I now forgotten?
as the undertow pulled the sand away underfoot
ШАМРО
August 4, 2007
© woundedlordliterature
deliberate
obfuscate
there was a time
but not today
its been more than twenty years
and don’t you know
that there are more meaningful reasons
dressing in the moonlight
II.
looking into the fold;
fingers fumbling with
fishing string mending a net
to toss into the
wine dark sea
my room is dark
my tea is black
my ship to shore
to wit; teaming
why don’t it just come to fruition
sing a lovely song to break
the silence or run the gamete
take me out of it
I used to think that I could understand anything
that was put in front of me
that genius was a given
and that magic
flowed from my heart’s heart
and I sat snidely on the outskirts
chiming in with a penny
and at quarter to four
drunk with zeitgeist
and yet still; liars come to lie
and yet still; believers come to believe
traced among the fraternal paths
I can neither start nor stop
III.
to where am I wading into
to what am I waiting for
no one ever changes their soul
they only save themselves with sentiment
landlocked in their fits; dreamt in passionate
I saw dawn once, before anyone in America was able to see it
with few exception, while still in country
enlightenment shaking its stick, nudging silent and willful
I resolved, man is simply the dumbest of all the animals
only we; want more than we need
IV.
a combination to take the subjectivity
and put it in a paper cup to drink
passivity that quenches the sadistic
combs the solitude
while attempting to sleep
following two lines to their center of the universe
or to at least the very edge of time and space
the cataclysmic happens
and true meridian and nautical miles compress
stanzas joyous of their hearth and bearings intersect
north by northwest, drift 7° - starboard
while the sun broke over the mountain top
falling slowly flowing gently a river of light
that eddies against the roving rocks
with shameful intimacy
V.
I decided that I didn’t know you anymore
to push off into the ocean and to search for the devil
to tear out every page of every book I have read
to rip and burn every page I had ever written
and walk out on the plank while the tempest swirling,
rampaging and the main sail shredding I would find
a chantey to memorize; a song I could return to myself
what then happened; I didn’t expect
I would turn the sail east to search for the mountains
no fears of the abominable or tears of the inconsolable
Odysseus was going mad and there was this girl, yet
paced wonderfully in its ruse, the bora brought me
I wandered around back to the Adriatic
shores…safe and sound
we had sunken and killed thousands
the Black Sea; the Aegean was drenched
sobered I could war no more
my bread was dusty, my canteen spoilt
sirens, harpies yeah, but Phineas played Sweet and Lovely
and I found myself back on St. Christopher Street
it was the first time I thought; I could be wrong
was it the harpies getting to me or Zorba’s santuri?
august ramped up and equilibrated I looked
west to the setting sun and when I reached
water’s edge I remembered that the
world is flat after all and I had better get used to it
or the best for the best; wasn’t I now forgotten?
as the undertow pulled the sand away underfoot
ШАМРО
August 4, 2007
© woundedlordliterature
I Hope
there are times where it hurts so easy
the touch of the wounded word
against an unbearable sky
those days seem outnumbered
now the way things are
that in each time I’d step to brand karma
my measure came three fold
and I don’t understand a thing
and I almost forget that any day
had been different or that grace
had filled my heart and that love
is real and now I can see, Lord,
once I was blind and now I can
see…I once was blind and now
I can see…
ШАМРО
June 20, 2007
© woundedlordliterature
the touch of the wounded word
against an unbearable sky
those days seem outnumbered
now the way things are
that in each time I’d step to brand karma
my measure came three fold
and I don’t understand a thing
and I almost forget that any day
had been different or that grace
had filled my heart and that love
is real and now I can see, Lord,
once I was blind and now I can
see…I once was blind and now
I can see…
ШАМРО
June 20, 2007
© woundedlordliterature
tyme's remaining foes
my karma is a thistle rooted deep with a pretty poison
when it rains it pours
and then silence rounds the corners
to beat blues a Hyacinth
spilling gesture to deed
bent by storm
I remember walking
down cinder strewn
rail road chewing a stem
examining a solitude
life
the light this morning is plum
every leaf is broad
thick with dew
or frost
a morning reserved for moutains
where steep homes rock in the wind
my uncle was killed on these tracks
when he was sixteen years
by the train
I am eleven years
and I don’t realize that…
but I think about it now
has he been my guardian?
I know that his name was Ludwick
and we would have been friends
someone for when I’m alone
and I miss someone to talk to
and there is no one to be angry with me
I can ask… am I okay
I miss knowing that I am loved
like the way they say is from
the eyes of God
most days I know it doesn’t matter
but some times I notice
that irreplaceable glare
I am sorry for all I may have did
and I love you even if you can not
see that; I wish somehow to tell you
that which escapes the crevasse you think
I dropped you in
this part of me was broken
before I knew
and you are tired of hearing that, I know
but wait … let the morning be silent
and let the shade resolve a protected lot
waving mercy to just a soul that begs
to not suffer damnation or a face that
has not laughed from cheek to cheek
the gypsy whistles some Irish ballad
of tyme’s remaining foes
and gold coins in ocean’s belly
tears track the trail of retreat
there is reason to believe that
courage gains manifest, a touch
for divinity
gravity waits the leap but faith defies it
to reach soft hands
I hope that later
I will be better
someone who reaches expectations
and potential
something
tangible
for you
and I will no longer be terrified
of failing
courage
courage
courage
stand up again friend
stand up again
we’ll go together
May 19, 2007
© 2007 woundedlordliterature
ШАМРО
Ludwick - may 16. 1934 - 1950
Herrick Center, PA
when it rains it pours
and then silence rounds the corners
to beat blues a Hyacinth
spilling gesture to deed
bent by storm
I remember walking
down cinder strewn
rail road chewing a stem
examining a solitude
life
the light this morning is plum
every leaf is broad
thick with dew
or frost
a morning reserved for moutains
where steep homes rock in the wind
my uncle was killed on these tracks
when he was sixteen years
by the train
I am eleven years
and I don’t realize that…
but I think about it now
has he been my guardian?
I know that his name was Ludwick
and we would have been friends
someone for when I’m alone
and I miss someone to talk to
and there is no one to be angry with me
I can ask… am I okay
I miss knowing that I am loved
like the way they say is from
the eyes of God
most days I know it doesn’t matter
but some times I notice
that irreplaceable glare
I am sorry for all I may have did
and I love you even if you can not
see that; I wish somehow to tell you
that which escapes the crevasse you think
I dropped you in
this part of me was broken
before I knew
and you are tired of hearing that, I know
but wait … let the morning be silent
and let the shade resolve a protected lot
waving mercy to just a soul that begs
to not suffer damnation or a face that
has not laughed from cheek to cheek
the gypsy whistles some Irish ballad
of tyme’s remaining foes
and gold coins in ocean’s belly
tears track the trail of retreat
there is reason to believe that
courage gains manifest, a touch
for divinity
gravity waits the leap but faith defies it
to reach soft hands
I hope that later
I will be better
someone who reaches expectations
and potential
something
tangible
for you
and I will no longer be terrified
of failing
courage
courage
courage
stand up again friend
stand up again
we’ll go together
May 19, 2007
© 2007 woundedlordliterature
ШАМРО
Ludwick - may 16. 1934 - 1950
Herrick Center, PA
memory of memory mine
you found the way out
simple but not clean
four years like a sledge
have passed on by
and I can still sometimes hear you
but its tired
it wants peace
that violence will never escape me
brutal instantaneous and above all
cruel
it's never easy to say good bye
especially when the reason is
so sorry
you were my brother
I loved you
but the silence is not at all
liberating
everyone is waiting to regain
their timing to join back in the
dance
you come back like a bear
to mark your territory
unearthed from winter
let your peace begin
and let those who are still
tryng to say good bye and let go
do their duty to the memories
giving that unrelenting momentum
quiet
a pause, just enough to catch a breath
silent light it's like silent light
I understand I understand
saluu!!!
ШАМРО
May 8, 2007
© 2007 woundedlordliterature
for T.S. Dewey may, 8, 2003
simple but not clean
four years like a sledge
have passed on by
and I can still sometimes hear you
but its tired
it wants peace
that violence will never escape me
brutal instantaneous and above all
cruel
it's never easy to say good bye
especially when the reason is
so sorry
you were my brother
I loved you
but the silence is not at all
liberating
everyone is waiting to regain
their timing to join back in the
dance
you come back like a bear
to mark your territory
unearthed from winter
let your peace begin
and let those who are still
tryng to say good bye and let go
do their duty to the memories
giving that unrelenting momentum
quiet
a pause, just enough to catch a breath
silent light it's like silent light
I understand I understand
saluu!!!
ШАМРО
May 8, 2007
© 2007 woundedlordliterature
for T.S. Dewey may, 8, 2003
Kent State University May 4, 2007
almost noon
sitting across from
where famous photograph
was taken of Jeffery Miller
a woman who is
a notorious protester
is sitting
directly in front me
writing her speech
its almost noon
I never knew you
nor have I learned much
I promised myself
one day
the beginning of the end
those war’s gone
new ones enter
dead stay dead
and the living keep going
a man who knew this boy
visited the vigil
the woman holding the candle
didnt say a word
ШАМРО
© 2007 woundedlordliterature
sitting across from
where famous photograph
was taken of Jeffery Miller
a woman who is
a notorious protester
is sitting
directly in front me
writing her speech
its almost noon
I never knew you
nor have I learned much
I promised myself
one day
the beginning of the end
those war’s gone
new ones enter
dead stay dead
and the living keep going
a man who knew this boy
visited the vigil
the woman holding the candle
didnt say a word
ШАМРО
© 2007 woundedlordliterature
The Abandoned Ones…
with my mind at its lows
I am to counter all of those
with whim or past whim
ev’rything that goes
into the night of the brand new day
like a closing song
or the last act of a play
gone to the others
in forms of lust and pleasure
when we don’t know
we huddle and gather
to piece ourselves as one
the abandoned hearts of alchemy
we are the ones who describe the night
the dryness and ill-gotten triumphs
of when insatiated forms crash as long
as it takes for the dead ones to come alive
each passing figure, each phantom of fear
grosses the other
and ne’er to the day
the abandoned ones exclaim!
virgin tears of long lost hopes
dry the hearty pains
with this they stalk their captur’d ones
with vigilance to say
that there is no free ones
from the cages of their brains
inside the deepest mountains climbs
the power that drives them on
- they are the rules of deceit
never living down
just what has come of all of this
not good, patronized many are
but they don’t eat the human flies…
it is of themselves ye knows, passing
each dream as a candle
burning to be put out
only resistance to death is self
the ember calms the night
as they chew their brains to dust
the abandoned ones prays to gods
that created them from lust
and so answer me
why we all pretend
that this is not what appears to be
when each and all belong
to the society or the spirits will
and when they run for change instead or apathy
we only label them tyranny…
ШАМРО
April 29, 1987
© 1987 Private Stock Poetry
It is amazing to me to see that this pome has made it to 20 years. It was believe it or not inspired by a beautiful spring morning in Dunedin, FL and by 10 am it was finished. I called Shiloh at home inbetween classes and read it over the phone. It was what I considered my first masterpiece... youth... I had been in a drought from when I wrote up to ten pomes a day down to not liking a damn thing I wrote.
Yes; this has that juvenile or as Byron put it that false trashy stilted style...but it marked the moment. It was the same kind of moment as when I dropped the needle on the Beatles White Album for the first time or Dylan's Blood On the Tracks... a song to myself in my personal history; when I knew after today every thing would be different...
How many of these days have you yet to mark? How many of these days have you marked?
I am to counter all of those
with whim or past whim
ev’rything that goes
into the night of the brand new day
like a closing song
or the last act of a play
gone to the others
in forms of lust and pleasure
when we don’t know
we huddle and gather
to piece ourselves as one
the abandoned hearts of alchemy
we are the ones who describe the night
the dryness and ill-gotten triumphs
of when insatiated forms crash as long
as it takes for the dead ones to come alive
each passing figure, each phantom of fear
grosses the other
and ne’er to the day
the abandoned ones exclaim!
virgin tears of long lost hopes
dry the hearty pains
with this they stalk their captur’d ones
with vigilance to say
that there is no free ones
from the cages of their brains
inside the deepest mountains climbs
the power that drives them on
- they are the rules of deceit
never living down
just what has come of all of this
not good, patronized many are
but they don’t eat the human flies…
it is of themselves ye knows, passing
each dream as a candle
burning to be put out
only resistance to death is self
the ember calms the night
as they chew their brains to dust
the abandoned ones prays to gods
that created them from lust
and so answer me
why we all pretend
that this is not what appears to be
when each and all belong
to the society or the spirits will
and when they run for change instead or apathy
we only label them tyranny…
ШАМРО
April 29, 1987
© 1987 Private Stock Poetry
It is amazing to me to see that this pome has made it to 20 years. It was believe it or not inspired by a beautiful spring morning in Dunedin, FL and by 10 am it was finished. I called Shiloh at home inbetween classes and read it over the phone. It was what I considered my first masterpiece... youth... I had been in a drought from when I wrote up to ten pomes a day down to not liking a damn thing I wrote.
Yes; this has that juvenile or as Byron put it that false trashy stilted style...but it marked the moment. It was the same kind of moment as when I dropped the needle on the Beatles White Album for the first time or Dylan's Blood On the Tracks... a song to myself in my personal history; when I knew after today every thing would be different...
How many of these days have you yet to mark? How many of these days have you marked?
climbing the cold mountain
my Buddha wears a blindfold
he holds a sign that says,
he holds a sign that says,
then you think
he is sober and smiling and doesn’t care
am I foolish for thinking
I can pour
empty into empty?
I will take this new world and twine the old world as a ball of yarn
I can roll it down the cold mountain
I will relieve the past of all boundaries and deeds
I will no longer compel childish impulses and have no jurisprudence
of falsehood for those that can not possess Wu.
bifurcation can not change the Buddha
why should I hunger after every meal?
a way that can be conceived is not the true way
© 2005 woundedlordliterature
july 3, 2005
ШАМРО
untitled # 597 - part the second
after graduation I would stop by her house
and report on what I was doing with
my time
I told her about a friend of mine
who was writing poetry by staring into
a candle and the candle would inspire
pomes
she made me promise I wouldn’t ever
do it; promise me, I remember her saying
promise me…
and I promised.
she thought
the devil would
come into my soul
because I would be hypnotized
by the candle
she thought I was silly
running around late at night
drinking coffee and tearing up
bits of paper
wanting to be a god
of my own
I don’t recall any other girl
ever being so worried
about the outcome
of my soul
at least
not in that way
© 2007 woundedlordliterature
April 5, 2007
ШАМРО
and report on what I was doing with
my time
I told her about a friend of mine
who was writing poetry by staring into
a candle and the candle would inspire
pomes
she made me promise I wouldn’t ever
do it; promise me, I remember her saying
promise me…
and I promised.
she thought
the devil would
come into my soul
because I would be hypnotized
by the candle
she thought I was silly
running around late at night
drinking coffee and tearing up
bits of paper
wanting to be a god
of my own
I don’t recall any other girl
ever being so worried
about the outcome
of my soul
at least
not in that way
© 2007 woundedlordliterature
April 5, 2007
ШАМРО
untitled # 597
I had a dream this morning about Teresa N.
She was mad at me; she said I kicked her garage door
I told her ‘I didn’t kick the garage door.’
and she said, ‘and now he’s going to deny kicking the garage!’
I somehow remember this as one of our last conversations we had
face to face.
It was as clear as a bell and I’ve thought about it for a good part of the day
for two reasons…
The first being, did we really have this conversation and was it that important?
and second, what else was I supposed to be denying… because she said it like I was denying something else to her?
If it was that night; the last night we spoke face to face, I remember I was trying to talk her into moving up to Jersey to live with me to get out of her oppressive house.
I think her mother was listening through the garage door and …
It will be about eighteen years since I last saw her… and I’m thinking about what she meant by kicking the garage…She lived not a mile from my parent’s house and when I moved back to Florida we never spoke or saw each other. I’d walk by her house from time to time and I think she saw me; but never came around…
We were never in love; she enjoyed my attention… we were friends…she hated the Beatles. When we were 16 she had a 1972 Cadillac; huge and white. Then she got a brand new Camaro that we rode around in before that hurricane; right before I went in for that year…she was my sort of girlfriend at the time…but I had forgotten that when I got out…
I probably know why she never forgave me… there was one night and I didn’t want to take advantage of her and I think she misunderstood. Somehow I don’t think that was it either…it was after a few friends came by that she…
I had stopped thinking about her for a long time; those sorts of things leave a bad taste… She never gave me the real story when I called from Jersey and perhaps it never really mattered. Maybe after I left, so did whatever idea she had…
But it is funny; the first time I met her she sang me Drive My Car, now when I hear it I think of her and she hated the Beatles.
© 2007 woundedlordliterature
April 5, 2007
ШАМРО
She was mad at me; she said I kicked her garage door
I told her ‘I didn’t kick the garage door.’
and she said, ‘and now he’s going to deny kicking the garage!’
I somehow remember this as one of our last conversations we had
face to face.
It was as clear as a bell and I’ve thought about it for a good part of the day
for two reasons…
The first being, did we really have this conversation and was it that important?
and second, what else was I supposed to be denying… because she said it like I was denying something else to her?
If it was that night; the last night we spoke face to face, I remember I was trying to talk her into moving up to Jersey to live with me to get out of her oppressive house.
I think her mother was listening through the garage door and …
It will be about eighteen years since I last saw her… and I’m thinking about what she meant by kicking the garage…She lived not a mile from my parent’s house and when I moved back to Florida we never spoke or saw each other. I’d walk by her house from time to time and I think she saw me; but never came around…
We were never in love; she enjoyed my attention… we were friends…she hated the Beatles. When we were 16 she had a 1972 Cadillac; huge and white. Then she got a brand new Camaro that we rode around in before that hurricane; right before I went in for that year…she was my sort of girlfriend at the time…but I had forgotten that when I got out…
I probably know why she never forgave me… there was one night and I didn’t want to take advantage of her and I think she misunderstood. Somehow I don’t think that was it either…it was after a few friends came by that she…
I had stopped thinking about her for a long time; those sorts of things leave a bad taste… She never gave me the real story when I called from Jersey and perhaps it never really mattered. Maybe after I left, so did whatever idea she had…
But it is funny; the first time I met her she sang me Drive My Car, now when I hear it I think of her and she hated the Beatles.
© 2007 woundedlordliterature
April 5, 2007
ШАМРО
what they’ll all say
my whisky says aged 10 years
single malt scotch whisky
Isle of Skye
that reminds me of a little girl
we went to school with named Skye or Sky
I don’t know, to be honest, I didn’t pay attention
enough to her to learn her name
I don’t mean that in a horrible way
everybody knew her
she rode around on a little electric scooter
that they sell now for old people
I said hello to her once or twice
but she acted like there were
better people to know
so I decided to not worry about it
maybe she was shy
I was a lad that everybody knew
in one fashion or another
I am not an alcoholic but I’ve played one on TV
I could recount stories to you
about the bars I’ve closed, the times I’ve been tossed out
the bartenders I’ve been friendly with
and the stories I’ve heard
I’ve played the part; let’s just say of the barroom prophet
with little following
there is no glory without deep regret, just so you know…
and I don’t mean, I wish I didn’t tell her that…or some
childish stunt
no I mean, things like talking to Motown about AA or
telling Austin about my affair because he
was in love with her or… getting mad at him that night or
being angry at any of them for my short comings of high bounding
wisdom … my en-lighten-ment
we don’t convert our friends
we don’t teach them to write or play guitar
we don’t let them crash for a few days
we don’t ask them for money or cab fare
we don’t illuminate them with our good luck
we buy them a drink and we let them cry
we say ‘those fuckers’ and ‘I wish I had been there’
no one ever has to apologize for what they did
everyone has one of those days
no one says I told you so
or we knew
because they are there to forget
because they do not want to understand
and only when the story becomes a legend do we remember when
ten years ago they were all …alive
Austin, Doug and Scott
we never saw Motown again soon thereafter
and that priest, I don’t remember what happened to him
or any of those girls, single mothers,
they just disappeared, vanished without the horizon
I remember talking to Vonda one night about winning the Lotto
and she said, she’d have the biggest party that anybody had ever seen.
and then she asked, what would you do? I didn’t want to answer but
she made me and I said, no one would ever see me again … and she
couldn’t believe it … ‘I don’t believe you’ she said … I didn’t try to reassure her
and she asked the bartended if she believed me. She knew me… Vonda
got up and I never spoke to her again
I would have said then that ten years is a long time
but I have since learned that there is another quantifier
one that we learn after awhile
I don’t know what sets it off
if it is the release of the bitterness, the ultimatum of heartbreak
or just that relentless chamber singing a familiar song
Do you want to know what started it tonight?
I was driving home early and I had been on the road for a good part of the day,
single malt scotch whisky
Isle of Skye
that reminds me of a little girl
we went to school with named Skye or Sky
I don’t know, to be honest, I didn’t pay attention
enough to her to learn her name
I don’t mean that in a horrible way
everybody knew her
she rode around on a little electric scooter
that they sell now for old people
I said hello to her once or twice
but she acted like there were
better people to know
so I decided to not worry about it
maybe she was shy
I was a lad that everybody knew
in one fashion or another
I am not an alcoholic but I’ve played one on TV
I could recount stories to you
about the bars I’ve closed, the times I’ve been tossed out
the bartenders I’ve been friendly with
and the stories I’ve heard
I’ve played the part; let’s just say of the barroom prophet
with little following
there is no glory without deep regret, just so you know…
and I don’t mean, I wish I didn’t tell her that…or some
childish stunt
no I mean, things like talking to Motown about AA or
telling Austin about my affair because he
was in love with her or… getting mad at him that night or
being angry at any of them for my short comings of high bounding
wisdom … my en-lighten-ment
we don’t convert our friends
we don’t teach them to write or play guitar
we don’t let them crash for a few days
we don’t ask them for money or cab fare
we don’t illuminate them with our good luck
we buy them a drink and we let them cry
we say ‘those fuckers’ and ‘I wish I had been there’
no one ever has to apologize for what they did
everyone has one of those days
no one says I told you so
or we knew
because they are there to forget
because they do not want to understand
and only when the story becomes a legend do we remember when
ten years ago they were all …alive
Austin, Doug and Scott
we never saw Motown again soon thereafter
and that priest, I don’t remember what happened to him
or any of those girls, single mothers,
they just disappeared, vanished without the horizon
I remember talking to Vonda one night about winning the Lotto
and she said, she’d have the biggest party that anybody had ever seen.
and then she asked, what would you do? I didn’t want to answer but
she made me and I said, no one would ever see me again … and she
couldn’t believe it … ‘I don’t believe you’ she said … I didn’t try to reassure her
and she asked the bartended if she believed me. She knew me… Vonda
got up and I never spoke to her again
I would have said then that ten years is a long time
but I have since learned that there is another quantifier
one that we learn after awhile
I don’t know what sets it off
if it is the release of the bitterness, the ultimatum of heartbreak
or just that relentless chamber singing a familiar song
Do you want to know what started it tonight?
I was driving home early and I had been on the road for a good part of the day,
going down town (back and forth) for meetings. I thought to myself how about that last cigar I have,
its warm tonight and the rain will really bring out the flavor. I flipped the channels on the radio to the local rock and roll stations. They played some songs for/in honor of the singer who just killed himself … which made me think of friends that are gone. Then a song that I had really fell in love with about ten years ago (again)… man, that song … I tried turning some friends who had a band on to it to play it … believe it or not they hadn’t heard it before. (my first instance of ‘youth is wasted on the young’) and it was playing …
‘I woke up in a Soho doorway where a policeman knew my name, he said, you can go sleep at home tonight if you can get up and walk away’… ‘I remember throwing punches around and preaching from my chair’… ‘I know there is a place you walked, where love falls from the trees, my heart is like a broken cup, I only feel right on my knees’
…
I have reasons to celebrate, if you are intimate in my life you know why but this week is Scott’s birthday … he didn’t like whisky, he liked wine … one time he made me pork chops and Beaujolais … just like my song … I try to remember everyone, and I’d hate to know how many I don’t know about... It’s funny to think that now, even at my age, we ask, are they still around?
my friend gave me this bottle and I’m gonna finish it in a moment and yes I’m gonna smoke my last expensive cigar that I have at the house … my exuberance … and it sucks that some ain’t here no more to share it … I sometimes feel like Furry in Dylan’s Delia, when he says ‘all the friends I ever had are gone’ maybe its more like Hank said about all his rowdy friends settling down … but I know its different. It’s the life we chose. Honestly and sometimes regrettably. That’s why Shiloh won’t talk to me and why some others are struggling. It’s why I put this down for so long...
why are we wounded my friends? Because we wanted something other than what we really needed…
So ~ here it is Stansfield … the last of that salty peat … ah yes…
And So Then ~ Fare Thee Well and if Forever Still (old friends), Fare Thee Well
Here it is Scott - The sword, the scepter, and that sway - Dougie! Motown! Austin! …and sadly – Shiloh – and all those that … couldn’t … or wouldn’t …
I miss ya, I love ya …still… until we meet again …
© 2007 woundedlordliterature
‘I woke up in a Soho doorway where a policeman knew my name, he said, you can go sleep at home tonight if you can get up and walk away’… ‘I remember throwing punches around and preaching from my chair’… ‘I know there is a place you walked, where love falls from the trees, my heart is like a broken cup, I only feel right on my knees’
…
I have reasons to celebrate, if you are intimate in my life you know why but this week is Scott’s birthday … he didn’t like whisky, he liked wine … one time he made me pork chops and Beaujolais … just like my song … I try to remember everyone, and I’d hate to know how many I don’t know about... It’s funny to think that now, even at my age, we ask, are they still around?
my friend gave me this bottle and I’m gonna finish it in a moment and yes I’m gonna smoke my last expensive cigar that I have at the house … my exuberance … and it sucks that some ain’t here no more to share it … I sometimes feel like Furry in Dylan’s Delia, when he says ‘all the friends I ever had are gone’ maybe its more like Hank said about all his rowdy friends settling down … but I know its different. It’s the life we chose. Honestly and sometimes regrettably. That’s why Shiloh won’t talk to me and why some others are struggling. It’s why I put this down for so long...
why are we wounded my friends? Because we wanted something other than what we really needed…
So ~ here it is Stansfield … the last of that salty peat … ah yes…
And So Then ~ Fare Thee Well and if Forever Still (old friends), Fare Thee Well
Here it is Scott - The sword, the scepter, and that sway - Dougie! Motown! Austin! …and sadly – Shiloh – and all those that … couldn’t … or wouldn’t …
I miss ya, I love ya …still… until we meet again …
© 2007 woundedlordliterature
ШАМРО
March 22, 2007
for all me friends
song quotes from The Who ‘Who Are You’
and Bob Dylan ‘Delia’
poem quoted Lord Byron Fair Thee Well and Ode to Napoleon Bonaparte
© 2007 woundedlordhackliterature abomination
upon falling in love
upon falling in love
one time so furiously away
I step’d into the modern light
- I found my crimson decay
yet in a daze I still moved
dead, but nerves at their ends
yes with just a thought I corroded my mind
now here I am
- sourly and kind
upon falling in love, I watched the trains roll on
like crystal bend light to the nite airs stare
I left them with something to see me by
no heart or kind words
but I did leave them something to say
The Great Walrus and his parade
fell hopelessly in love with himself denying
the pleasure of loving another so dear
denying humanity for his fears
so with this the gloves fell through the empty rhymes
with nothing in them sane
wishing ev’rything numb once more
something more subtle maybe… a little less tense
you, you bastard haven’t your learned yet
no love is really kind… not worth a time or day
she’s gone to bait the frozen fish
a package you once knew…
upon falling in love
the writer died in his lines
axes…blades…wooden shots
for a name or assurance that things
will be normal again
but the lines held their strength …a glow of
gleam had been aware
of what had happen’d again before
the unlit touch appeared
…whom was it for…?
upon falling in love… I wrote poems and
odes and psalms…I gave them all
no meaning other than platonic leftovers from
the gallows of what was once my mind
…how then…now then…we are here again
exploring no new unknown…nothing worthwhile or
pleasurable…let me in I have candy…
as sad as it must seem; I crowd around nothing
for no one but me…am I wrong
no with a dream I’m always right
no matter who I harm…the law of the land
is laid down by pen or gun…whichever you
prefer but I demand a much more contemplated
movement before I trade in for anything…especially
love…my dear…left alone who knows what
would become of me, a lost day in the year
oh gosh…heaven’s what now?
I’ve got to breathe…please let me stop chocking
on the demands of an ill-gotten dream…good
news its over folks…the third world war…
you know once we destroy ourselves with our own
opinion we’re over and down with, so collide with
those dreams, long lost souls of yourself, feel your way
through the crude obsessions of life
I never thought life would be this fun
who knows maybe all will change tomorrow
who knows maybe I’ll change tomorrow
I once left things unattended
though I didn’t care and really don’t now
it would be so much easier if things would just self
destruct…you know I would leave Thee then
but that just isn’t reality anymore…not since
Star Trek or Star Wars was made…I live for dreams
in a bowl of coffee in Florida what’s your excuse…
no new news has left me more serious than what
I once started with…upon falling in love
a lost child in times of need
relinquish the old attitudes of yesterday once all is
gone and distraught is merely an after thought
we laugh and move along…so typical in
a liaison of fate, we trend each word we preached
in a hypocritical tease saying reality is merely what
never was…hence we have poor attitudes and
stupid sayings to mask the reality that is true and
real hard with life’s bitter gut of trials
if I told you I believe in nothing but now how would
that change you plans for tomorrow…if it was believed
that it will never come
would you drown in my disillusionment with me
and swallow the algae’s in our brains
Good Luck… better yet lets stay to see if
everything changes with fame
it always does…it changes from love of another
to love of a dream to love of oneself
one problem is we become jealous of ourselves
and then we cheat on ourselves to prove a point of
powerful morality that no one really believes anyway
… if the tables were turned…
if we pretended to elope and make love until dawn
would it change my mind…? would it change the way
you feel towards my beliefs
since I believe in now I can’t tell you a thing
we’ll just have to go and find out
if I were to die…I’d like to die in my
arms since they’ve held me the most…
my solitude is mine and I respect that
I ask no one to do the same…because they can’t
I’ll think of when I fell in love…and better
yet I’ll remember the taste I felt tonite
a little red but always the same
how much easier could it be done except if I simply
say…upon falling in love…
june 27, 1987
ШАМРО
©1987 Private Stock Poetry
one time so furiously away
I step’d into the modern light
- I found my crimson decay
yet in a daze I still moved
dead, but nerves at their ends
yes with just a thought I corroded my mind
now here I am
- sourly and kind
upon falling in love, I watched the trains roll on
like crystal bend light to the nite airs stare
I left them with something to see me by
no heart or kind words
but I did leave them something to say
The Great Walrus and his parade
fell hopelessly in love with himself denying
the pleasure of loving another so dear
denying humanity for his fears
so with this the gloves fell through the empty rhymes
with nothing in them sane
wishing ev’rything numb once more
something more subtle maybe… a little less tense
you, you bastard haven’t your learned yet
no love is really kind… not worth a time or day
she’s gone to bait the frozen fish
a package you once knew…
upon falling in love
the writer died in his lines
axes…blades…wooden shots
for a name or assurance that things
will be normal again
but the lines held their strength …a glow of
gleam had been aware
of what had happen’d again before
the unlit touch appeared
…whom was it for…?
upon falling in love… I wrote poems and
odes and psalms…I gave them all
no meaning other than platonic leftovers from
the gallows of what was once my mind
…how then…now then…we are here again
exploring no new unknown…nothing worthwhile or
pleasurable…let me in I have candy…
as sad as it must seem; I crowd around nothing
for no one but me…am I wrong
no with a dream I’m always right
no matter who I harm…the law of the land
is laid down by pen or gun…whichever you
prefer but I demand a much more contemplated
movement before I trade in for anything…especially
love…my dear…left alone who knows what
would become of me, a lost day in the year
oh gosh…heaven’s what now?
I’ve got to breathe…please let me stop chocking
on the demands of an ill-gotten dream…good
news its over folks…the third world war…
you know once we destroy ourselves with our own
opinion we’re over and down with, so collide with
those dreams, long lost souls of yourself, feel your way
through the crude obsessions of life
I never thought life would be this fun
who knows maybe all will change tomorrow
who knows maybe I’ll change tomorrow
I once left things unattended
though I didn’t care and really don’t now
it would be so much easier if things would just self
destruct…you know I would leave Thee then
but that just isn’t reality anymore…not since
Star Trek or Star Wars was made…I live for dreams
in a bowl of coffee in Florida what’s your excuse…
no new news has left me more serious than what
I once started with…upon falling in love
a lost child in times of need
relinquish the old attitudes of yesterday once all is
gone and distraught is merely an after thought
we laugh and move along…so typical in
a liaison of fate, we trend each word we preached
in a hypocritical tease saying reality is merely what
never was…hence we have poor attitudes and
stupid sayings to mask the reality that is true and
real hard with life’s bitter gut of trials
if I told you I believe in nothing but now how would
that change you plans for tomorrow…if it was believed
that it will never come
would you drown in my disillusionment with me
and swallow the algae’s in our brains
Good Luck… better yet lets stay to see if
everything changes with fame
it always does…it changes from love of another
to love of a dream to love of oneself
one problem is we become jealous of ourselves
and then we cheat on ourselves to prove a point of
powerful morality that no one really believes anyway
… if the tables were turned…
if we pretended to elope and make love until dawn
would it change my mind…? would it change the way
you feel towards my beliefs
since I believe in now I can’t tell you a thing
we’ll just have to go and find out
if I were to die…I’d like to die in my
arms since they’ve held me the most…
my solitude is mine and I respect that
I ask no one to do the same…because they can’t
I’ll think of when I fell in love…and better
yet I’ll remember the taste I felt tonite
a little red but always the same
how much easier could it be done except if I simply
say…upon falling in love…
june 27, 1987
ШАМРО
©1987 Private Stock Poetry
sensitive expectancy
spirit is eternally present in endless supply
august turns to renew slumber
to forgive and forgot
like before junior year that hurricane
brushed up
and we all thought it was a joke
something happened there
a sail turned
a knarl came from the shore
every step taken changed
and changed again
the motive of the sands resolve
an immense catalogue speaking up
my youth bore upon me
with brilliance and calm
while the sky and the water
and the city was quiet as the prairie
I recall the texture of it all;
…the silver and the blue…
twenty years is burning up the road
with a thunder I do not want to listen to
I was sober and free and remained so
until the fighting started again
youth and parentage reserve expectancy in the rafters
as a fire creates a milestone
consequence retreats what few witness
but the hurricane came and went
did I that year out into the ghostly shore
the captain with the peerless emerald green sea
find my august and levy…
August 25, 2005
ШАМРО
excerpt from The Grey Fields revisited
© 2005 private stock poetry
ranch in suspence
©2007 woundedlordliterature
august turns to renew slumber
to forgive and forgot
like before junior year that hurricane
brushed up
and we all thought it was a joke
something happened there
a sail turned
a knarl came from the shore
every step taken changed
and changed again
the motive of the sands resolve
an immense catalogue speaking up
my youth bore upon me
with brilliance and calm
while the sky and the water
and the city was quiet as the prairie
I recall the texture of it all;
…the silver and the blue…
twenty years is burning up the road
with a thunder I do not want to listen to
I was sober and free and remained so
until the fighting started again
youth and parentage reserve expectancy in the rafters
as a fire creates a milestone
consequence retreats what few witness
but the hurricane came and went
did I that year out into the ghostly shore
the captain with the peerless emerald green sea
find my august and levy…
August 25, 2005
ШАМРО
excerpt from The Grey Fields revisited
© 2005 private stock poetry
ranch in suspence
©2007 woundedlordliterature
The Splendor of Smoke Clearing
desiring to set the record straight
playing out or disenfranchising
cold skeletons, the brim of intuition
the seeking of admonishment
to conciliatory remains
stretches my will to crescent
rummaging through the revisions
I find emulsified ruin
I no longer refract my emotions
over a broken vestal vestige
let memory mystify the inconsolable
as they have admitted defeat
against the battle of themselves
as pointed as contradiction would deny
embellished wants and deposits grander than grandeur
the captains of auditions spin pencils into cartoon
the fragment glad hands infinity’s chapter
a bargain of suffrage
whispering in silence of evening finality and pirouette
or some blade that bounds worm to salt
that grief in repose miters the soul against its will
the penalty is paid by anyone who loves
that urn becomes a cavern
a split piece marginalized and indiscrete
a thick ennui of betraying alibi
as false as once true, as mocking as once honorable
stolen from the lamb, traded for affirmation
a solitary incarceration rests in weight
as concealment ravages what was left to pride
to tenant that escape one must be wiser than the will
braver than the blade, coarser than the sand
enabled verses the abominable
greater than the gods
who would be so wise to adhere to folly
who cannot counter the price to pay
variables that last out each originality
contrasts the splendor of smoke clearing
to add thesis that most of the time
the dead cannot rise
no more to the mischievous hamlet for penance
or redemption for ill disguised spite
to lay scorn or contrive hysterical homage
an intangible intrinsic motif cancels
a barter to match a fallacy
this nature remains untouched, these fields unplowed
waiting to propagate grace
as the last summer of youth harvests the spectrum
sight becomes revived
June 30, 2005
ШАМРО
excerpt from The Grey Fields revisited
© 2005 private stock poetry
ranch in suspence
©2007 woundedlordliterature
playing out or disenfranchising
cold skeletons, the brim of intuition
the seeking of admonishment
to conciliatory remains
stretches my will to crescent
rummaging through the revisions
I find emulsified ruin
I no longer refract my emotions
over a broken vestal vestige
let memory mystify the inconsolable
as they have admitted defeat
against the battle of themselves
as pointed as contradiction would deny
embellished wants and deposits grander than grandeur
the captains of auditions spin pencils into cartoon
the fragment glad hands infinity’s chapter
a bargain of suffrage
whispering in silence of evening finality and pirouette
or some blade that bounds worm to salt
that grief in repose miters the soul against its will
the penalty is paid by anyone who loves
that urn becomes a cavern
a split piece marginalized and indiscrete
a thick ennui of betraying alibi
as false as once true, as mocking as once honorable
stolen from the lamb, traded for affirmation
a solitary incarceration rests in weight
as concealment ravages what was left to pride
to tenant that escape one must be wiser than the will
braver than the blade, coarser than the sand
enabled verses the abominable
greater than the gods
who would be so wise to adhere to folly
who cannot counter the price to pay
variables that last out each originality
contrasts the splendor of smoke clearing
to add thesis that most of the time
the dead cannot rise
no more to the mischievous hamlet for penance
or redemption for ill disguised spite
to lay scorn or contrive hysterical homage
an intangible intrinsic motif cancels
a barter to match a fallacy
this nature remains untouched, these fields unplowed
waiting to propagate grace
as the last summer of youth harvests the spectrum
sight becomes revived
June 30, 2005
ШАМРО
excerpt from The Grey Fields revisited
© 2005 private stock poetry
ranch in suspence
©2007 woundedlordliterature
In the Cool Dry
so on the seventh day
we swore against
our round hats
and muscled through snow
a hill side tipped by the meadow
took ourselves out of focus
nobly, steady…full.
while in the cooled dry
a vanishing of identity
scarring the focus
of a two toned maturity
the strange days, long lost pointless
travel to hear the crackle of footsteps
to liken the depths of recession
soliloquy of repeated phrases
to swear against love, conformity…hypocrisy
the grim reasons of certitude
kept tucked inside wool & flannel
I did keep a happiness in bounty
and I did sicken the mind
restless teaming disconnected alibi
or a hallow spent bullet aimed
to my hands
I have noticed nothing since I last shook
myself warm
I can feel those leaves turning
and I can wrinkle past habitual encampment
on that seventh day
which stood utterly still
I begged you not to turn your back on me
as we silently capped the evening off
has it turned its wobbly knees to me
a fiber beneath a dim light
no magic or nostalgia
gives back to me what was stolen
and never replaced
because looking homeward only makes
it ill & untrusting
that age old remedy is only
too much business to take care of
not enough food for the heart
will we pass away these words
tonight, against the grass
of my last winter promises
did I guide at all to what
I used to claim
or not sink my name into oblivion
wishing to know what death becomes
while soul lingers on
or did I stolidly confess the truth
of my mayhem and muster
or did I cave in because I got lonely
that memory is so clear that I can read it
and my bitter truancy is that it will not
unfold from my hands
I will not agonize why I had to be alone
why in my shame forsaken this only
ambition, I crave and I admonish,
my wheel to open me again
like reading The Prisoner of Chillon in
my car with my fingers burning in the cool dry
to turn the pages, crying, whispering to myself
this is life.
June 11, 1997
ШАМРО
from: paper hanging son of a bitch
© 1997 private stock poetry
© 2007 woundedlordliterature
we swore against
our round hats
and muscled through snow
a hill side tipped by the meadow
took ourselves out of focus
nobly, steady…full.
while in the cooled dry
a vanishing of identity
scarring the focus
of a two toned maturity
the strange days, long lost pointless
travel to hear the crackle of footsteps
to liken the depths of recession
soliloquy of repeated phrases
to swear against love, conformity…hypocrisy
the grim reasons of certitude
kept tucked inside wool & flannel
I did keep a happiness in bounty
and I did sicken the mind
restless teaming disconnected alibi
or a hallow spent bullet aimed
to my hands
I have noticed nothing since I last shook
myself warm
I can feel those leaves turning
and I can wrinkle past habitual encampment
on that seventh day
which stood utterly still
I begged you not to turn your back on me
as we silently capped the evening off
has it turned its wobbly knees to me
a fiber beneath a dim light
no magic or nostalgia
gives back to me what was stolen
and never replaced
because looking homeward only makes
it ill & untrusting
that age old remedy is only
too much business to take care of
not enough food for the heart
will we pass away these words
tonight, against the grass
of my last winter promises
did I guide at all to what
I used to claim
or not sink my name into oblivion
wishing to know what death becomes
while soul lingers on
or did I stolidly confess the truth
of my mayhem and muster
or did I cave in because I got lonely
that memory is so clear that I can read it
and my bitter truancy is that it will not
unfold from my hands
I will not agonize why I had to be alone
why in my shame forsaken this only
ambition, I crave and I admonish,
my wheel to open me again
like reading The Prisoner of Chillon in
my car with my fingers burning in the cool dry
to turn the pages, crying, whispering to myself
this is life.
June 11, 1997
ШАМРО
from: paper hanging son of a bitch
© 1997 private stock poetry
© 2007 woundedlordliterature
IV
of the splendid joy of manifest
come the festering of instinct
what have I laid down before thee
the thundering of belly
the haplessness of tribute
altho, I fair nothing in that
placement
I do feel the focus of a far unlit time
where agents of purity are a nostalgic tyranny
place not thine’s hopes in thine’s hands
let the peacemakers make the peace
and the warmongers make the war
let only the lively understand
that living is more than just an acquisition
and time more than a calculation
February 3, 1997
ШАМРО
from paper hanging son of a bitch
© 1997 private stock poetry
no epitaphs remembered
© 2007 woundedlordliterature
Tenderfoot ‘94
way back in yesteryear
a cold way from home
sometimes an idle moment would
pass to me
with logic staring into my heart
I peered everso lonely
to begin believing that the road
went west, east, north & south
depending on the direction you were facing
someone must have told you that before
altho, my good friends
its another thing to realize it
I’m not sure if I remember my fourteenth birthday
I mighta dreamed about it today
this moment now that I gaze out
and peer off into
someone saying my amigo your amigo
any amigo to spare
who sought out life & love
the domestic guardian lowering soft hands
to raise a chance
to give an opportunity to blow
deep into the night there will be regrets
the ones that continue to follow all thru the ages
Tenderfoot you are afraid of changing
you will never change so much that I don’t know you
since from time to time you have chosen to leave me
each return I have felt the earnest of yer years
what you say hasn’t changed will
one long bead falling slowly down the windshield
you're not speaking in circles
just breathing out the silent debate
light me a cigarette, mine is going out
my lover will you be willing to forgive me
wake to the morning of what dies in me daily
will you let Tenderfoot come in for a beer
will you stand in this dimmed room to watch
the baleful sky beautiful like child
who does remotely remember the cast out
rebels stand close to your loyalties
see what fades by your work by your age
will you still love the you of stages
or the seemingly empty emptiness of admonished pleasure
Tenderfoot come near me, come nearer still
I need you understanding your power of words
I’m leaving the last of my life
take me as I am
the forward motion of the stone I do not realize
I know it carries its momentum to the bottom of the sea
where all tremendous throws must die
I sit here on the bank, still and rested
waiting and wanting my plea of innocence returned
I have you to thank creator, do you have me to avenge
Tenderfoot, take me for another ride
into the caverns of space or the dew drop seclusion
let us mock the trees and stars
let us deny the afterbirth again
I want to skip stones once more in the park
I want to watch the fish dance under the rocks
are you going to grow up on me too
we were never the ones to belong to this place
let me take away the pain once more
lets balance on the fence, throw apples at the gate
watch the bees buzzing while we slap with branches
dont you think Johnny Appleseed passed thru here
talking to the Indians and carving out pipes of peace
once in a lifetime did you ever place a bet
I dont mind the rain when the crickets are out
lets go out to the cars one more time
and take a ride…
august 25, 1994
ШАМРО
from LIFE IS REVENGE,
ШАМРО
from LIFE IS REVENGE,
the audience of the dead,
private poetry productions
exempt stage stories
all eptitaphs remembered
© 2007 woundedlordliterature
Easy Web
I remember lying in that crib
we called our home
the sweat of youth
and the disconcern
of those around
the swift buildings
in our souls
and the cars
crossed the causeway
and the wind held our
heads
and the salt
grabbed at our souls
until it was
time to leave
I remember you coming to me
through a window
I remember cursing
star filled skies
the elope of our damage
would never recover us
and the chance to runaway
never came up
I lost my trials against
the stone
and soon to come
was my eloquent death
I would go through those
pictures
after we were separated
from those we loved
and the chain reaction
of each other’s sight
I would sometimes feel you
beneath me, giving yourself, the unchild
I have grieved for Thee
even as recent
as today
I’ll never leave that place
I made for you
The sonnets are left above the sky
and that love was a hell
unconceived, a damp passion
through an adolescent enigma
one day I may love…
each time I come back
it rules that shelf I bent
it’s a merciless sham
that penetrates
even my darkest showers
even the sun gives its rest
I pace the evening
and die again
like a man who’s never seen
It’s a causal holocaust between these words
it’s a damaged grunt aloud
because it was too shameless
because I know it never lied
not wrought or written bitter
it’s a mutilated baby in space
not craving or needing
because blood was not a cost
nor a fee
it was the brutal warmth
that doesn’t break
like a dark scar
or placid like the epitome
of my breath on the sand
or the way your eyes turned away
as I watched your body stand against
the shutterless shadow you gave
I will one day
lose my mind
for the focus of faith
that grew in groves
to be given to all others
but each other
had you ever left that world
had I given with fear
I would have never needed
to act
or leave my home
instead I’ll install that closet
to the past moment
a frequent trauma
a deluge in quarry
it is as much to ignore
as to quiver with
ШАМРО
selected from The Greatest Cowboy That Was Ever Sad
© 1990 Private Stock Poetry
The Tender Mercy Insignia*
January 23, 1990
we called our home
the sweat of youth
and the disconcern
of those around
the swift buildings
in our souls
and the cars
crossed the causeway
and the wind held our
heads
and the salt
grabbed at our souls
until it was
time to leave
I remember you coming to me
through a window
I remember cursing
star filled skies
the elope of our damage
would never recover us
and the chance to runaway
never came up
I lost my trials against
the stone
and soon to come
was my eloquent death
I would go through those
pictures
after we were separated
from those we loved
and the chain reaction
of each other’s sight
I would sometimes feel you
beneath me, giving yourself, the unchild
I have grieved for Thee
even as recent
as today
I’ll never leave that place
I made for you
The sonnets are left above the sky
and that love was a hell
unconceived, a damp passion
through an adolescent enigma
one day I may love…
each time I come back
it rules that shelf I bent
it’s a merciless sham
that penetrates
even my darkest showers
even the sun gives its rest
I pace the evening
and die again
like a man who’s never seen
It’s a causal holocaust between these words
it’s a damaged grunt aloud
because it was too shameless
because I know it never lied
not wrought or written bitter
it’s a mutilated baby in space
not craving or needing
because blood was not a cost
nor a fee
it was the brutal warmth
that doesn’t break
like a dark scar
or placid like the epitome
of my breath on the sand
or the way your eyes turned away
as I watched your body stand against
the shutterless shadow you gave
I will one day
lose my mind
for the focus of faith
that grew in groves
to be given to all others
but each other
had you ever left that world
had I given with fear
I would have never needed
to act
or leave my home
instead I’ll install that closet
to the past moment
a frequent trauma
a deluge in quarry
it is as much to ignore
as to quiver with
ШАМРО
selected from The Greatest Cowboy That Was Ever Sad
© 1990 Private Stock Poetry
The Tender Mercy Insignia*
January 23, 1990
from: Manfred (Act I, Scene II)
A lower Valley in the Alps. – A Cataract.
If I had never lived, that which I love
Had still been living; had I never loved,
That which I love would still be beautiful
Happy and giving happiness. What is she?
What is she now? – a sufferer for my sins –
A thing I dare not think upon – or nothing.
Within a few hours I shall not call in vain—
Yet in this hour I dread the thing I dare:
Until this hour I never shrunk to gaze
On spirit, good or evil – now I tremble,
And feel a strange cold thaw upon my heart.
But I can act even what I most abhor,
And champion human fears.—the night approaches.
LORD BYRON
b. January 22, 1788
(1816-1817)
If I had never lived, that which I love
Had still been living; had I never loved,
That which I love would still be beautiful
Happy and giving happiness. What is she?
What is she now? – a sufferer for my sins –
A thing I dare not think upon – or nothing.
Within a few hours I shall not call in vain—
Yet in this hour I dread the thing I dare:
Until this hour I never shrunk to gaze
On spirit, good or evil – now I tremble,
And feel a strange cold thaw upon my heart.
But I can act even what I most abhor,
And champion human fears.—the night approaches.
LORD BYRON
b. January 22, 1788
(1816-1817)
from: ODE TO NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE
The triumph, and the vanity,
The rapture of the strife—
The earthquake voice of Victory,
To thee the breath of life;
The sword, the scepter, and that sway
Which man seem’d made but to obey,
Wherewith renown was rife –
All quell’d – Dark Spirit! what must
be
The madness of thy memory!
LORD BYRON
April 10, 1814
The rapture of the strife—
The earthquake voice of Victory,
To thee the breath of life;
The sword, the scepter, and that sway
Which man seem’d made but to obey,
Wherewith renown was rife –
All quell’d – Dark Spirit! what must
be
The madness of thy memory!
LORD BYRON
April 10, 1814
yugao (evening sky)
yugao
is dancing
the shelter
of the summer
moss
battledresses
gazers
sometimes
she is content
with her
thoughts
and other times
freedom
is the jealousy
of the sun
sweetly resting
with pomes
forming
the evening
sky
©2007 woundedlordliterature
is dancing
the shelter
of the summer
moss
battledresses
gazers
sometimes
she is content
with her
thoughts
and other times
freedom
is the jealousy
of the sun
sweetly resting
with pomes
forming
the evening
sky
©2007 woundedlordliterature
Ode To Ophelia Rainmaker
the youngsters play visceral latitude
her moonship has left the running
over cracked and slighted sidewalks
for empty mailboxes and dimes
having sensed mortalities finding
Jonah and a wicked pen
fell deep into the belly
to search the cold cut end
to feel destiny crying
along the steps of a Tahitian band
oh break your love
and sing those kisses
given salty with remorse
take out the heart
and be it true
for your honor does it trust
to rest that coif of surely plumb
with the lips of reconciliation
the wall to fall to pangs forgotten
the take of essence prow
that name that takes the tongue
in that pleasure, in that fear,
is it the one that holds you dear
is it one who kept you so
the long wind would escape this mor n
which leaves the fate of coffee and sunrise
come likewise with that limping champion
child, hold out your hands
for didn’t this love ever forsake you
likewise come for did it defile you
as the keeper of that vile
in simple hands
her moonship has left the running
over cracked and slighted sidewalks
for empty mailboxes and dimes
having sensed mortalities finding
Jonah and a wicked pen
fell deep into the belly
to search the cold cut end
to feel destiny crying
along the steps of a Tahitian band
oh break your love
and sing those kisses
given salty with remorse
take out the heart
and be it true
for your honor does it trust
to rest that coif of surely plumb
with the lips of reconciliation
the wall to fall to pangs forgotten
the take of essence prow
that name that takes the tongue
in that pleasure, in that fear,
is it the one that holds you dear
is it one who kept you so
the long wind would escape this mor n
which leaves the fate of coffee and sunrise
come likewise with that limping champion
child, hold out your hands
for didn’t this love ever forsake you
likewise come for did it defile you
as the keeper of that vile
in simple hands
© 1998 private stock poetry
Rusalka
when I was young
I was able to be
with you,
more than
I was inclined
to be with any other
do you
wonder if I
miss you
I have not
been back
in so long
in the trails
and by the old cars
and down by the slant
and over by the crossing
and under the bridge
and in the tunnel
you tempted me
with deeds and love
and promised a mixture of
ambrosia and sapphires
I too would swim
and become a raindrop
those days when we were
just romping around in
the park we found
a nest under the willow
we ran with it to the falls,
where we let it go
as the nest sailed into infinity
I turned to say something
you giggled and I thought
you kissed my cheek
as the millenniums
stole you back
© 2007 woundedlordliterature
ШАМРО
I was able to be
with you,
more than
I was inclined
to be with any other
do you
wonder if I
miss you
I have not
been back
in so long
in the trails
and by the old cars
and down by the slant
and over by the crossing
and under the bridge
and in the tunnel
you tempted me
with deeds and love
and promised a mixture of
ambrosia and sapphires
I too would swim
and become a raindrop
those days when we were
just romping around in
the park we found
a nest under the willow
we ran with it to the falls,
where we let it go
as the nest sailed into infinity
I turned to say something
you giggled and I thought
you kissed my cheek
as the millenniums
stole you back
© 2007 woundedlordliterature
ШАМРО
the sun boat
trampled under by the rain
the sun boat
invented the sand
it was easy
because they collect rocks
from everywhere they go
sometimes I understand
the sadness and
sometimes I know its my fault
I don’t know when
or why; but somehow
I lost access to the kingdom
and everyday is like the tide coming in
and I am buried up to my neck
in sand
© 2007 woundedlordliterature
the sun boat
invented the sand
it was easy
because they collect rocks
from everywhere they go
sometimes I understand
the sadness and
sometimes I know its my fault
I don’t know when
or why; but somehow
I lost access to the kingdom
and everyday is like the tide coming in
and I am buried up to my neck
in sand
© 2007 woundedlordliterature
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
