To A Miss

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I, dancing in my own bitter disgrace,
Washed and hung out and my mind unaligned,
And with my memory I did erase.

Unable to maintain a fitful pace,
Body and soul so utterly resigned,
I, dancing in my own disgrace.

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Nine to Five

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So poor is the man in his pointless toil,

For by standard virtuous he must be,

Never reaping the rewards from the soil,

In the darkness of this world’s horrid fee.

And should he be so inclined to wander,

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One Night

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Breathless and quaking like the crumbling moon,

Shining on the night and to we below,

Whispering the words we already know,

Reflected in the eyes where lovers swoon.

And let us catch her falling fragments,

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Our Times

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Outlandish ponderous propositions,
From a red lady championing sordid lies,
Words imitating superstitions,
From behind deeply dead ocean blue eyes.

But what is to be said to such trappings,
Of voices in deceptive overtones,
Guised in rose petals and thorny wrappings,
To swim in shallows or the deep with stones.

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Creased Pages

IMG_3200 The stories written on your wrinkled brow,

Each a poignant reminder of living,

Your expressions say more than words somehow,

Of your uncertainty and forgiving.

Of a youth of struggles and such grand plans,

Meandering feet and wondering minds,

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