Rocky harbors

I can hear the pitter-patter

of the lonely swarming clouds

like children to a calling

a thick and rushing crowd,

as water chisels over rock

I see the moving dance

a witty loathsome gesture

like the dice a rolling chance,

my heart it flows in weeping dips

at the world so blindly going

following master’s at their point

with no mind to what their sowing.

The shadows tree

Autumn, she was a lanky thing

with arms like daddies legs

and hair that flown as fine string

looming down upon the dredge,

she moves in through the shadow

of every creaking tree

seeking out the love she lost

for the day she will call free,

as light flashes the dark

she moves in angled strays

dark around her cursing lips

her knuckles broke in pray,

screams can be heard

all along the edge

the place where she does wander

tipping a delicate ledge,

so there she is behind you

watching your wanton soul

easing you to falter

like the tip of a falling crow.


Morrow, she would sing from atop

bowing down in mercy over ground

prancing upon the stage, chop chop

shiny eyes and smiles un-found,

wanders at the sullen veins

cloudy murky water upon her eyes

pulling torrent hair from reins

shattered teeth open skies,

folly footing moving stairs

a wallowing bloody wave

empty hearts a pattered pill

the scream of moonlit days,

and loosely cry sweet tenderness

to the want of another pray

where the souls are deep in mourning

and dead flies all kiss her face,

but here we see the bitter flesh

blinded and cold with sores

hoarding all that’s pretty

floating skins on all the shores.

A whispering breadth

Lo good night what dreams may follow

when the sleep is fraught with dark

murky brethren within the hollow

making the mind brim with froth;

at the breaking of the shallows.

To what sight does the day break light

when the folly are all encumbered

the stormy dismay of many falling

to the waking of those in slumber.

Tis’ the tidaling among the crash

as fallen walk from hiding

the ox and lion graze freely

as it veils the well upon rising.

The high standard of low

It was a stretch this dirty road

going on for miles in no direction

and I moved in a steady pace

making my way to green pastures

that lay over rolling hills

between the fence of indecision

and the writing on the wall

where many seem to gather

like maggots to an open wound

clambering over each other

for the want of nothing

the nothing that fills this world

with the appetite of need

want overshadowing necessity

forging a cold and empty heart

because enough is not enough

and to reject it is to fail.

Emily puts on an air

Purple was in her hair

and nails on the door in red

she pounded on the wells of eve

fractured feet are where she tread,

I’m not a dream, she said herself

your free to be for all time

but the corners are not rounded

and bright does not mean it shines,

steadily the pace she did wander

reaching the coin of her eyes

to blindly see with no reason

butterflies eat heart for the cry.

On broken brow

When lost in recollection

where alpines reach and fly

soaring through the empty

filling clouds of a rivers cry,

where death sweet friend, will carry on

floating through the distant

crowded broken wings

with fractures of resplendent,

some say to here before we go

that nowhere is the wiser

where someone has no wry return

and dead fingers resound, oh miser.