Everyone's been
Writing vibrantly.
But no luck,
Just no luck
For the poet in me.

My hand is sore.
My brain is weak.
No gush of ideas,
No words to speak

Everyone seems to be
Scribing vibrantly.

But no luck,
Just no sheer luck...
For the vain poet in me.

I need none, but you….

If I write my life on ice,
I’m sure you’d melt my heart.
Should I choose another time
I fear you’d move the sun.
And if my lyrics are off cue,
could you accompany my desire.
For now this life of mine’s a duel,
between your music of ice and fire.

Don’t tame your shrew, I love all you are,
though hurt too the bone can she.
When her untamed angry heart rages,
shrewd am i to quench her thirst.
And if per chance she’d fall in love,
I shall strive to be her first.

I was unmasked by insecurity
when first faced with your purity
now aware that wind swept lullaby's
cradled promise untold, always
nurtured never scold.

with anxious delegation watching
you both unfold, kissing your little
fingers and toes, now standing on
your own two feet first memories of
this still so sweet, this I remember
so time will never delete.

wash me
you say
holding the cloth
the tub edge
shiny with moisture

tommorrow is a distance
unmeasured

grey in the mists
while tonights sunsets
are hard and brittle

I watch it

mesmerized
encapsulated

damn those islands
and their mystery

one day I swear I will
walk the seven Klicks
of ice to see their shore

terrified of water that
till never occur

Scorpions All

All scorpions are
Venomous beings,
On earth
As in heaven
Rarely,
Very rarely if at all,
Do they lead blissful lives
Nor do they
Appreciate others,

You are an angel
And you know it,
Great verses
You create
Friendly
Mate...

I spend my days here far below
in a cramped and sizzling room
sweating
tormented by fellow sinners
.....rapists
.....murderers
.....false prophets
.....molesters
.....worse..............

The only thing I'm allowed to watch
on my 1 channel TV screen
my mortal remains
rotting
I know the smell well
same as my victims' parts
long after the blood starts.........clotting

My magical hand turn letters
and words into poetry. My pen
hand is priceless, my talented
utensil on my torso is not to
ever be abused nor misused.

I spend hours with my pen hand
burning words into paper. My mind
is steaming with visionaries. My
dreamland in which no other person
can conquer. My imagination churns
my hand with pen solder ink with paper.

When my scribe is finished, I have a
piece of wording I can be most proud of,
I have it published for all people to enjoy.

AT THIS MOMENT (FIVE MINUTES AGO)

at this moment,
five minutes ago,

there were a number of things
i wanted you to know-

but i thought i’d save them for
later,

and merely send you
three

points of view, I hope you’re
better,

and I sure do hope they make you think of
me.

tell me what you think of
them

tell me what you
do

if your point naught one percent
chance

does come
through

(Interlude)

thinking of you now at
length,

To me
You are
The heating sun,
Giver of life,
Shower of warmth.

I am
To you
The iceberg
Melting.

Pink hands, little feet
small package in the
midst of chaos, adult
hands convey violence
inculpable vessel corrupt.

Who gave the right?
Certainly not I, a
Silent witness to
demoralization, never
tell, never hear, never see!

I do not want to recall
unwelcome hands smacking,
shoving, probing, and poking
thrusting myself inward
I forget to remember ...