CALL OF THE SUN…..

Staring out the window,

Hoping for a new sun to come,

Sun that can blind the darkness from within,

And raise its rays above the clouds of the roof,

Illuminating the grounds beneath.

I stood there praying for him to come back to me,

Hands closed like that of a praying mantis’,

But I was trapped in my own shadows of black and white,

As there was no color to brighten my heart,

The wait took longer than the birth of an elephant.

Can one weigh out a kilogram of fire?

Can one measure the cubic metre of the wind?

Can one bring back yesterday?

Can one find the exits from the world of the dead?

Can one point to the entrances to paradise?

But still I stood here hoping and praying,

For that sun, that beautiful sun,

That will bring colour to my life and smile to my face,

But a dream is always a dream,

And a wish it shall be,

Till infinity calls……..

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I am the one who floats, carefree among the chaos of the world. As the hordes swim by playing follow the leader, without a true leader. I stand outside. I don’t follow the crowd. I follow the ebb and flow of my own tide. Floating in the serene, tranquil ocean. Moving as the ocean would have me, rather than fighting the current to get to some imagined perfect location. I float in the vastness and I am the one who is at peace.

I am the one who stands out. Out of my element but perfectly at peace. Everyone around me the same. Work to live, live to work. But I do what I want. I enjoy life. I live to explore, to learn, to observe. I watch as others fight the tide to get to shore, to their perceived safe haven. But I have chosen the world as my safe haven. I am the one who stands out because that is my home.

Lips of Sweetness

Sweetness of lips talk nothing but kind words

as if you were reading verses from the heaven

when those lips draw near me in bed

I hear the echoes of lovers from the distance of moon

Back to desires, you are the first one

blue-eyed lake in dark, like your eyes all the times

I enjoy the rain because it spreads

your taste upon your skin below the red dress

This universe has moody seasons

people whisper to stand against our shields

close to you and my secrets become the

shadow to protect you all night

For you, I will drink your wine

and break all the bottles of sorrows

For you, I will inhale your scent

and damage all the pack of grieves

Even your perfume has a promise

to seek you with the beats of my heart

hopefully, I will turn myself into a

candle to hear your voiceless wishes

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Stories From the Home Road

The escort was working with folks that had been ordered into a program for sexual offenders, and this is what they wrote:

Three Works By The Escort and Friends

Four kids from Brockton High decided to go to the haunted house where a family was murdered:

They decided to break things, until an old woman with dirty hair that covered her face and wearing a tattered gown, confronted them

Back in ‘89 I was lost and a little high

In the sky I never thought I would come down

Twisted mind, spinning everything

Clap, stomp, jump to the moon

Feel kind of dead, kinda loose

Kinda strange, drinkin’ my juice

You know I went loco

On my own like Al Capone

Fly low to the ground, died in the dirt

To die last or die first, heartburst

Creepin’

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Old Men Walk Funny (V2)

Old men walk funny with shadows and time eating at their heels.

Pediatric walkers, prostate exams, bend over, then most die.

They grow poor, leave their grocery list at home,

and forget their social security checks bank account numbers,

dwell on whether they wear dentures, uppers or lowers;

did they put their underwear on?

They can’t remember where they put down their glasses,

did they drop them on memory lane U.S. Route 66?

Was it watermelon wine or drive in movies they forgot their virginity in?

Hammered late evenings alone bottle up Mogen David wine madness

mixed with diet 7-Up, all moving parts squeak and crack in unison.

At night, they scream in silent dreams no one else hears,

they are flapping jaws sexual exchange with monarch butterfly wings.

Old men walk funny to the barbershop with gray hair, no hair;

sagging pants to physical therapy.

They pray for sunflowers above their graves,

a plot that bears their name with a poem.

They purchase their burial plots, pennies in a jar for years,

beggar’s price for a deceased wife.

Proverb:  in this end, everything that was long at one time is now passive,

or cut short. Ignore us old moonshiners, or poets that walk funny,

“they aren’t hurting anyone anymore.”

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Portraits After ‘A Likeness’

I don’t own an image, any proof that you lived: not a poorly drawn sketch or a blurred photograph.

There is no framed canvas in vibrant oil colours, the master of the place. No portrait to take pride in.

There are no stormy eyes glaring above the fireplace, that would judge my every move, every loose strand of hair.

All that’s left are memories, sullied by history. Your face cracked by your words, its art stained with their black tones.

Hearts may ache after leaps, but a canvas can’t be kept in order for one to live. A likeness will never help.

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