cold cold morning

what to make of the shadows
who have never made the journey:

its a stumble down the hall way
foreign to any memories guide
when trust of your senses
belong not even too you..

its a cold, cold morning
i needed love a friend or guide
when no one there to trust.

there is no one left but me
and what i am willed to see

no one left to trust
not even me.

   

Rabid Cycle

the blues is a chair, not a design for a chair or a better chair . . . it is the first chair. It is a chair for sitting on, not for looking at. You sit on that music.
-John Lennon

Rabid Cycle

shades drawn… lights dimmed
The beast outside has been fed.
Fade deep into the Armchair…

elegant burning within my head:
The flame upon a vigil candle
in a draft-less corridor.
Feeling and daylight make
Up a waxy fuel.

night evanescences into day.
The hungry beast calls out,

Like the divine to Lazarus…
And feeds on Legion’s despair.

__________
—poem circa 2002, while coping with rapid cycling symptoms.

Hurricane Brews

a hurricane brews within my head.
thoughts, like waves thrashing against rock,
of the living and the dead.

a thousand indecisions
drowned quietly in the waves,
just then a thunderbolt of urgency
unexpectedly invades.

S.O.S i am the admiral of
this ghost ship that’s sinking
the water here is frigid
and i don’t trust my thinking.

a hurricane brews inside my head
my Ghost Ship is tossed and tumbled
i withdraw my rusted anchor
from the lonely seabed

i remember Elliot’s Wasteland
so perfect.. so barren.. so dry..
i set my mast and sail away
to where the sea meets the sky

Waiting for the sunrise

.

Waiting for the sun to rise

upon a brand new day

The dusk that closed the day before

Seemed so far away.

‘

Every morning opens with

With hopeful new day shine

But the Darkness of the day before

is never far behind.

‘

Some will live in shadows

as night cradles them to sleep.

Some run terrified of dark

and burn up in the sun ray’s heat.

‘

The new day would be blinded by

The hope of rays that are cast

life is shaped with out lines

with dark colors of our past

‘

I’m Ready for the sun to rise

To eclipse the sleepy nights

and keep my shadow as reminder

as I head out into the light

tonight i am a failure

tonight I am a failure.
I’ve convince myself that I keep my hand out stretched to others,
That sooner or later everyone will
have there hands stretched out
But if I look beyond my own limits
I see a lot of people with
hands clenched in a fist.
and soon or later I ask myself is it my hands
that are clenched in fists.
tonight my hands reach for surrender.
tomorrow is a new day to reach out to…
imperfection is the most beautiful thing to reach for.

Mania poems: Hurricane to Rabid Cycle

hurricane brews.

a hurricane brews within my head.
thoughts, thrashing like waves against rock,
are of the living and the dead.

A thousand indecisions
drowned quietly in the waves,
just then a thunderbolt of urgency
unexpectedly invades.

S.O.S I am the admiral of
this ghost ship that’s sinking…
the water here is frigid
and I don’t trust my thinking.

A hurricane brews inside my head
my Ghost Ship is tossed and tumbled
I withdraw my rusted anchor
from the lonely seabed

I remember Elliot’s Wasteland
so baron… so dry…
I set my mast and sail away
to where the sea meets the sky

Dream awake for
what dreams can be
a blizzard of nothingness..
flames of desire have arisen
in me like the first
sunrise in spring,
easter is the season of rebirth

*

*

Rabid Cycle

Shades drawn… lights dimmed

The Beast outside has been fed.

Fade deep into the Armchair…

~~~~~~

Elegant burning within my head:

The flame upon a vigil candle

In a draft-less corridor.

Feeling and daylight make

Up a waxy fuel.

~~~~~~~

Night evanesces into day.

The hungry beast calls out,

Like the divine to Lazarus…

And feeds on Legion’s despair.

Vague silhouettes flash by when I close my eyes

Quick images in black & White…

Thought race fast…

Flowers burst with color…

The world is alive…

*

Stray cats, clocks and bees

short poems

*

I am a stray cat.

A lone creature scurrying for scraps

Of knowledge in life’s back alleys.

Midnight choruses with kindred souls

Fill the cold night with songs of restlessness.

*

Life is a stand up clock –
Where spring like emotions force
the gears upon gears
Of the human spirit to move in precision.
A strong Oak-like shell stands
hiding the tender energy within.
A face that projects only time.

*

Vague silhouettes flash by when I close my eyes…

Quick images in black & White…

Thought race fast…

Flowers burst with color…

The world is alive…

*

.

..

the unbearable lightness of Bee-ing

The bee moves knowingly,
Moving to flower from flower
Zipping through air and environment
Knowing his being
Is that of a bee. .

The bee moves unknowingly,
Trading pollen for nectar
Essence for essence
Essence for flowers
Essence for air Essence environment.

Unknowing of grand the contributing/consuming
Value of the bee.
Unknowing is the bee of the spring gales,
The gale of probability…
The gale of otherwise pleasant rainy days
That both beat down and force up flowering plants,
The gale that blows the bee violently of his course

His essence, his existence
His existence is very light.
His unknowing is very heavy
The unbearable lightness of bee-ing

.

*