Forests of Glass

The trees are hunkered down

with ice upon their boughs.

The sky is grey as fishing lead,

and the Winter wind blows south.

 

The limbs of the Weeping Willow

fan out like a bridal train

as the willowy wands that dangle

give way beneath the strain.

 

For beneath the gloomy skies,

the trees are dark and cold.

The ice encases limb and leaf

of trees both young and old.

 

The blackbirds come to test the limbs;

the crow and ravens black.

Sometimes the tree limbs hold the weight

but other times they–CRACK!

 

I walk among the sparkling trees

easily imagining they are glass.

Each limb is a beautiful figurine

some blower has thought to craft.

 

When the skies turn blue once more,

the sun will rise above the rim.

And, the frozen forests will sing with light

and the blue birds will add their hymn.

Being Beautiful

It must be quite the burden

being beautiful and fair.

Oh, the jealousy it must invoke

compounding your despair.

 

I get it.

I think I understand.

Beauty is a ball

every woman would attend.

 

But, few ever get invited.

They’re just waiting in the wings,

plotting to tear you down

and make you feel their jealous sting.

 

Some will crash the ball,

wearing masks and being petty,

but they’re truly ugly creatures

with hearts colder than a yeti.

 

They’re cruel to other women,

enslaving men they may have fooled.

They’re redefining what you are,

transforming beauty into a tool.

 

The men are worse I fear.

They see your beauty as a cliff

to be climbed and conquered

or unwrapped like christmas gifts.

 

Though you wish they’d see beyond it,

I can tell by your troubled sighs.

The greatest problem in your life

are the men craving what’s between your thighs.

 

So, I understand why you are jaded.

Why you shroud yourself in ice.

It’s because you think I’m latest man

to come to you with lies.

 

When I tell you that you’re beautiful,

it’s because I want to hold your hand

and learn the little secrets

you hide from the race of man.

 

You’re not a unicorn.

You’re a woman made flesh.

Though your beauty feels like magic,

it haunts you half to death.

 

You’re your own worst problem–

A woman nobody knows–

because the only reason one might want to

is for the beauty beneath your clothes.

Romeo’s Reward

Why do you do

this thing to me,

showing me grace

with complexity?

 

Why can’t we pair

by nature’s law

and disregard

our human flaws.

 

Why can’t you peer

into my soul

and see the beauty

and not the troll.

 

Some men crave

power, treasure, and wealth.

Some are merely content

to have their health.

 

But, I need more.

like a hand to hold

and a heart to warm

when life grows cold.

 

I need someone to mourn me

when life exacts its toll;

to argue with God

for the sake of my soul.

 

So why do you do

this thing to me

and reward my efforts

with apathy.

Zombie

The queerest thing I know

is living without a soul

and reading the many faces

of those with inner glow.

 

We soulless shuffle ’round

seeing nothing as profound.

We see with marble eyes

and smile with iron frowns.

 

One might consider us vampiric

due to Stoker’s verse.

We’re incapable of seeing our reflection

in the eyes of those observed.

 

The queerest thing to date

is the saddest thing of note,

that dying a living death

robs the world of hope.

Carrying On

I tried to carry the bucket of milk

down the path leading from the barn.

My little arms were shaking

and the milk I spilled was warm.

 

The milk was for today.

Yesterday, I gathered eggs.

I broke a few of them

splattering them on my legs.

 

Tomorrow, I’ll carry a baby.

I’ll hold her in these arms.

I hope I’m strong enough by then

to protect her from any harm.

Never Easy (Lyrics)

I wrote a song, guys. Let me know what you think of it.

 

I pine away

for our tomorrow.

I look for the love

but only find the sorrow.

 

In a darkened barroom,

in a well lit church,

I’m looking for perfection

but all I find is hurt.

 

Hey girl, what’s your number.

Hey lady, what’s your sign.

Don’t roll your stupid eyes at me.

At least I’m out here trying.

You think approaching you is easy?

You fill my heart with fear.

One cruel word from off your lips

fills my soul with tears.

 

The world is a cold and bitter place.

So, why blow out my flame?

You threw away my roses

and don’t even know my name.

 

I picked up the books you dropped.

It was I who left the note.

It’s my shoulder that you cried on,

’cause I meant ever word I wrote.

 

Hey girl, what’s your number.

Hey lady, what’s your sign.

Don’t roll your stupid eyes at me.

At least I’m out here trying.

You think approaching you is easy?

You fill my heart with fear.

One cruel word from off your lips

fills my soul with tears.

 

Give me a wink.

Give me a wiggle.

Give me the time of day,

and I’ll give you a reason to be civil.

 

I don’t want to bribe your lips

or fight you for your body.

I’m asking for your heart

not love lessons in karate.

 

Hi, my name is this.

I know your name is that.

I’d like to make you smile

and share all your secrets.

 

Hey girl, what’s your number.

Hey lady, what’s your sign.

Don’t roll your stupid eyes at me.

At least I’m out here trying.

You think approaching you is easy?

You fill my heart with fear.

One cruel word from off your lips

fills my soul with tears.

 

One cruel word from off your lips

fills my soul with tears.

More to Say

To tell her I love you,

he’d leave chocolates on her pillow.

To show her how much,

he proposed beneath the willow.

 

For decades he composed,

leaving her little notes;

conveying in simple words

feelings he could not emote.

 

They sat upon their bench,

feeding squirrels she yearned to touch.

They leaned upon each other,

like the other was a crutch.

 

And so, it went

throughout their lives.

They shared love

till the day they died.

 

It was a sorrowful day

the day she passed.

He held her hand,

while she wheezed and gasped.

 

His tear spilled

across her wrinkled skin

that he touched

with lips and chin.

 

She lay still,

growing cold.

He closed her eyes,

feeling old.

 

They found him there

seated by her side,

clutching a note

wet with the tears he cried.

 

“You left without me.

I had more to say.

I’ll tell you in person.

I’m on my way.”

 

The Essence of Petrichor

A storm is on the brew.

The leaves show silver.

The clouds are dark and pregnant,

waiting to flood the river.

 

Our world holds its breathe,

listening to the rain.

It’s straining to hear the impact

of fat splats amongst the grain.

 

The first drop falls,

stampeded by many more,

and each drop that falls,

churns out the Petrichor.

 

The sweet scent of ozone

mixed with summer dust

is a dessert for a wilting wilderness–

a pie without a crust.

 

Like angels touching flesh,

the rain drops burn with cold,

stabbing through our vestments

like the Roman swords of old.

 

Though we thirst for the rain,

we race to escape its bite,

hiding beneath our roofs

while marveling at the sight.

Poor and Hero

Poor and Hero

went on a date.

One arrived early.

The other arrived late.

 

Poor had some wine.

Hero drank water.

They talked of affairs,

and of Mercy their daughter.

 

Over a course

of potatoes and meat,

Poor grew furious

and Hero didn’t eat.

 

“We’re misunderstood,”

Poor claimed in her rants,

heedless who would hear

and firm in her stance.

 

Hero gave a nod

and silently agreed.

“We’re a matter of perspective

and a fixutre of need.”

 

“Exactly!” Poor cried,

spraying spittle and crumbs.

“We’re being counterfeited

and our confederates are dumb.”

 

I’m Poor

and that means something precise.

It means I’m selling my blood

so I can afford to eat rice.

 

It means I wash myself

using stolen soap.

It means my socks are rotting

like river rope.

 

It means my teeth will hurt,

my body will ache,

my stomach will growl,

and heads will shake.”

 

“Life isn’t fair,”

Hero lamented.

“The grapes we’ve collected

have unfortunately fermented.

 

They call me Hero.

It’s what they declared.

I just did what I thought was right

while the others simply stared.

 

I was afraid.

I’ve no inkling why I helped.

I guess it’s who I am.

It was how I was whelped.”

 

Poor finished off her meal.

Hero gave her a peck.

Poor wiped away a tear,

and Hero paid the check.

Ragdoll

Her smile was made of yarn.

Her eyes, green glass.

Her touch was just a whisper.

Our love was simple math.

 

Our lives were hard.

We often screamed.

It wasn’t the marriage

we’d both forseen.

 

Her smile unraveled.

Her eyes leaked dreams.

She grew empty on the inside,

bleeding hope from out her seams.

 

Our love was the love of children.

I tried my best to stall,

but you can’t stop the slow demise

of a poorly crafted doll.