Heaven help us
Still to fore, the whole
In a dismayed cause, thus
A chastity has made, a world its dole?

Light in the meadow
Where smiles are long enough to care
Such a small favor to ask, a vice be a rainbow
When a favor is for the same as salt, are we married?

Light in the shadows
Sense in a serious hand, has the tomorrow
To wait in simple glares and stymied knows
The wishes of another drop of rain to borrow

Light in the way
To find the such, a realizing friend
With the common for proof, the tows of may
Adding their stoic reply to an age old question...

Can a whole day, dream longer than another, loved?
Before you answer, is a caring we, the timid also
Measure upon pleasance, the truth has garnered us
The platitude of each, in the name of what was, though...

Anarchy at the cost of gifts and their expression
Implied ****, to wish we weren't so very vain
Kindness of a legend, to secure a role with where this is leading
And the success of a stand for one night, of worth's rain

Hill's to call home, and an availing wind to come, hungry?
A liberty in renown, that has a song on its mind, heaven?
Space for a little more silence, than a chance with all, demanding?
Sharing a thought for only more, is like a half-eaten pride, given?

Judgment of a God given sate
Under the feet of liberty, is a wager of brass and steel, colloquial
Merit in a simple eye to look and see our fate
Ready as we ever are, the drama of sincerity has seen it, a promise to marry little soul's...

‘Cause you  never wrote any of the good parts down
You just lived ‘em
and let ‘em
s
 l
   i
     p
          
             a

                           w
                                               a                    y

You knew better
than to try to capture
the silliness in its hay day
because then you’d have
to face the facts of
the very choices
that you’d made;
and there would be no question -
whether it’s was worth it -
to waste the days by trading them
for nights of frivolity and frolicking -
Of frittering away.
What should have been,
and what is so,
and where it came from,
and who’s to blame
would all be there in Black and white,
instead of vanishing in the haze.

And in your own hand, no less;
your words,
a confession dictated day by day
of what, With your own eyes,
you did see
- All the magic and the wonderment of this tragic comedy -
through foggy lenses, bottle-thick and stained:
dreary ramblings in shadows made,
and heard and said
a many things
in drunken dangling reparteé.

"Pigeon droppings cited in bridge collapse"
                             —Toronto Star

Behold the ***** birds that felled a bridge
Of concrete, iron, and steel routinely made,
Dropping by dropping, pigeon after pige-
on adding contributions grossly laid.
An engineering feat commercial grade,
The bridge could not withstand the pigeon poo,
And, from the scourge of filth, the bridge decayed,
And fell as all decaying things will doo.
(When not creating mayhem, pigeons coo
And congregate and caper in the park,
Returning to their nests—tu-whit tu-whoo—
Before the owl can hunt them in the dark.)  
And so we see the danger we permit
When pigeons are allowed to give a ****.

Lamenting
through pupillary logs
with disregard and no regret,
I look back
remembering as far as I can
tiny, specks.

i know
the raven quoth
"nevermore"
and croaked
himself horse
for Lady Macbeth
while the crow
is an omen
of doom
or a messenger
carrying secrets
for the gods
but
if i saw
one of these
blackened birds
in solitude
i doubt
i could tell
which it was

~
Cold cold heart
Frozen plumage
Like a peacock
Her ladyship
In the campfire light
Skating about the pond
Of her own vanity
~

The Sun beams down blessing the white curtains with a holy sort of light,
delicate undulant pristine waves of silk,
frame the green leaves that peek out,
gentle and humble,
yet
commanding the eye to gaze upon them,
aware of their beauty,
manage to give vanity allurement.

The stories we live
are bound beneath
the covers of land and sky
and the days in between
are the pages
from hello to our goodbye
Each turning sun
brings a new day
closer to the hour
Where all good things
must come to a close
when death holds the power
We scratch our name
in the dirt and dust, till wind
blows away existence
leaving behind
scraps of our mind
and fragments of our presence
To toil much and embed a mark
only in soiled strife
is vanity to have had a name
not etched in the book of life