Poetry · Writing

Magic

I have to write.

I stare at this blank page

and it stares back

taunts me.

It feeds off me

like a leech it

feast on my fears for breakfast

and sips my anxiety like tea.

Never satisfied

until I write.

So here I sit

Staring through this open window

waiting for the magic.

From a home I can’t explain

neighbor of imagination

down the block from love

Or is it hate.

Next to the house that always cooks barbecue.

That smell that sweeps the block

through open windows

love hate relationship with your belly

as it fights for something more.

Yet, here I sit

waiting for the magic.

Watching this orange fuck

slowly crush our stars

gathering Universal’s Minions

calling himself Gru

wasting on a par 4

stealing candy from unborn babies

from the home that he

is burning to the ground.

Closing our window

after only a few months

He,

We.

Need to-

Look for the magic.

Gather fingertips

the window is still open

Jump.

Don’t fly

We still have to fight.

So

Here I stand.

Writing

silent page.

Starting at the open window.

Needing to make humans think

think twice

and tell them a lie

that this window

Will always be open.

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Poetry · Writing

the day before yesterday

Planning for the future

with a hammer

and a couple nails.

It’s a joke

I know

but it’s the truth.

The nails are a bit rusted

felt like I should mention that.

Bent too.

Head to Home Depot

to have your card rejected

but find a two by four

on the way home.

 

Buddy said she had

some parts for me,

pity screw.

Looking up already,

call it a note worthy day.

 

Poetry · Writing

Faith

The black panther lives in the rainforest.

This is the home of Faith.

The promising work of a florist.

Home forever even as a wraith.

 

Enchanting the world with sunny kisses.

Always with you like a reprise.

True nature’s cheery missus.

In spring time, love is carried on the breeze.

 

Her beauty undeniable by all.

All wanted to see what she could achieve.

Impossible to foresee thee befall.

This panther bows as she takes her leave.

 

All panthers ache and weep.

Rest now in your beauty sleep.

 

Poetry · Writing

hidden quiz; makeup. on.

sometimes, this is difficult

to beg for answers

everthing is truly a test

but this should have been open book

games being played

answers written on your hand

and i can’t even see the scantron;

laid it down

you, the one in the gown

pride of the hometown

strutting, wearin’ that crown

not ready for that showdown

but this is that countdown

wear it on my chest, i’m that proper noun

but i’m the one that looks like a fucking clown.

Poetry · Writing

success magazine; mothra

i collect memories

store ’em in a binder

under my bed

deep under past the monster

blow the dust away

they start early

half eaten by moths or accidents

birthdays and birthdays

a success photo shoot

that fucking kid billy that i hated

(take that one out real quick)

flip to the back to these empty pages

no dust no moths no sad endings- yet

a place i come often

a sweet reminder that the previous pages

don’t tell the end

moths will get to them just like the beginning

will put it back, with out guardian monster

take our books, pens and camera to the park

and look for butterflies

Poetry · Writing

the fixer; down wind

problem is

i always want to fix everything

things that don’t need fixing

instead of just caring

loving being more then a piece of tape

problem is

carrying weight that’s not my own

no one asked

carrying backpacks up mountains

nothing but a bottle and a tent

crashing down

broken arm

put tape on it

Poetry · Writing

Mr. Logan

it’s over.

the smiles of the veterans

stories of war

memories of their loved ones

all in a photo

i’ll remember you Mr. Logan,

it was just a place of business

like any other

your stories made it like any other

i am going to miss it,

wish i got the chance to tell you

that will be gone

to point you to a worthy place for your stories

an ear that would care;

i’m sure you’re having a drink with your son right now

reminiscing;

enjoy the day bud,

you’ve earned it

Poetry · Writing

the wanderer

the wanderer has no reflection

a boulder tumbling down a road

left bloody by her wife

wonderous by her mistress

alone by her husband

the wanderer has no reflection

they; walk

to find

something

a no name feeling

a response to a question

on a dotted line

written in invisible ink

revealed by

well

the wanderer doesn’t know

if you know

and you see the wanderer

on the road you avoid most

let her know

she misses her wife

Poetry · Writing

cake; princess diaries

i see it in your eyes

a hunger for more

every piece has your name on it

if you can see it

you’ll take it

a bloodlust for happiness;

but when your head rest on my chest

the breathe slows to a mild sigh

i see the kid again-

chasing a dream on a t.v screen

trying on string like a queen on the screen

it’s your favorite scene

we watch it on repeat it’s our routine

in the mirror it’s a queen at thirteen.