Call up Captain Smith

Call up Captain Smith and ask for a first class room.
1st, 2nd, 3rd class, pick your tomb.
They’re busy trying to make it to the western shore.
“Stay on the steam ship, it’s safer than with the oars.”
I hear resounding between
The deep sea creature’s tentacles
And the luxury liner’s rust particles
That saturates one’s mind.
Aristotle’s modern tragic definition is defined
Maritime for a lifetime
And far beyond. It reached mine.

Naked Mall Rats

I will not buy paper for this poem.
I will scribe on my envelope.
Stare at the rats scurrying from store to store
Hunting for more and more.
Cells ring; sales are king.
I do not despise Adam Smith’s ways,
But today, the lights flash on the cash
And this mini-city’s dash
To find completeness
In shopping bag brimmed with emptiness.
“Is there an accessory I missed?”

The hands of the lesser

Would I let my kingdom fall into the hands of the lesser?
Would I allow my house to crumble?
I would watch as my dreams fall apart
And give way under the weight of selfish children not caring to kill.
Could I trust my child to the butchering animals and
I watch them dragged out and stoned on the stone streets?
Would I trust my jugular in the hands of 2nd yr. 2nd rate medical students
Stayed up late-partying-
Drooping scalpel in hand.
I love them all. I could I give my all up
To the mob to misuse and misguide.
I never could sacrifice my work and time for them
But You can?

An emotional dilettante is about to tear

An emotional dilettante is about to tear and tear.
Yes. I, the lackey of logic, care,
Unstable as a rocky, cliff-side crag,
Feeling the free-fall- depressed and sad.
Hug me, for I will fall in love with falling:
Craving you, unchecked as a city sprawling.
Right now – irrational as the root of two
Quiet outside, but it’s just a rue.
Underneath the tractors are churning
Above fields of manure turning
A bag of weeds and seeds into a farm
That without plague or swarm
Will harvest bountiful fruit and wheat
Until in the sky we meet.

Are these words drugs?

Are these drugs? If so I
Am an addict of these therapeutic phrases
that aid my ailings.
They hide the duty of confrontation
Behind the blanket of talking it out
Poetry is not the solution
Though part.
Discuss before confront.
I love the Truthsetter.
Please love me back.
I am weak.
Weaker than my words written.

No one to romance

There is no one to be the receiver of my romance,
No woman in my life worthy of my waiting on to dance,
I crave to craft art for her ear and eyes,
Listen to her laughter; comfort as she cries,
Meditate on her ruminations and discuss her daily digests.
Hear the air of her breath, watch the rise and fall of her chest.
Where is she? Tell me please,
So I can cherish her now. Certainly I must,
Construct trestles of trust before I rust.
Surely, it’s her time for me to see
And love all parts of her with every part of me.

Drugged on fear since the first night

Drugged on fear since the first night,
Haunted by images of wrists clutched tight,
Forgotten your Father’s advice.
Said he wanted love, but he will suffice
Running so far, so fast; lost the way home.
Mind’s bruises are blue-er than your sensitive skin tone,
He might be worried, regress to one of his hourly fits.
Have you called in your location in the last 5 minutes?
Before you decide suicide during your nightly cries,
I hope you will leave someday; to realize
That pain’s not your fault and never was your blame.
He picked you, but why’d you change your last name?

Where have all the butterflies gone?

Blues, coppers, hairstreaks, gossamer-winged
You became sick feeding on foreign foliage, and have fallen.
The monarchs have left to acquire another king,
The swallowtails devour deceptions of the present pollen,
Instead of the life giving, renovating, nectar everlasting.

You see your reflection; all hues now drained, faded,
You left to pursue a seemingly sweeter flower
You regurgitate the memories of long ago now dated.
Adamant, steadfast once with cross tattoo needled after one hour,
Now apathetic, depressed, self-centered, and sadly jaded.

Lying to yourself, wanting to be a dragonfly
Thinking you were embarking on freedom; but instead
You are hopeless as an insect in a jar left to die,
Out on your own, fluttering in the careless wind almost dead,
Come home to your Creator, beautiful butterfly.

Every time I stop typing

Every time I stop typing you are there
Throwing me in a knapsack and carrying me
Down the street of my past memory
Crying. Couldn’t be more sadistic or kinder.
Pajamas, playgrounds, tuxes at a party,
Jess, Heaz, Ross, Jaz, Beck and Mir,
I’ve constructed a trance that reminds
Me of what was and still is in all its glory
And cancels my omnipresent burden and worry
That production is the only good use of time.
Recalling you and me: our one, now separate, story:
Composed music of the soul that intricately rhymes.

Hide you may

Hide you may. I will seek you out.
I will strive to hold my hands on your back
And keep my thoughts above neck
Hide yourself and make me run longer
Let me know the inner you
Before I know the outer you.
I want you to be modest not just to others
But the one you love, me.
I get a charge from the unknown.
Don’t you? The mystery of what might be. . .
It won’t matter because we know
The Truth evident in us, our images of God.