beauty

To just look at her isn't enough;
one needs to view her from all directions and distances,
up close
far away, the incredible profile,
and examine her features
like a fine artifact or precious sculpture worthy of any museum;
Without trying, her beauty effortlessly captivates
her sensual lines, painfully exquisite
In the purest form, natural and untouched,
timeless and alluring
her beauty caresses my heart
like a fragrant spring breeze awakens the senses
with colors, tastes, textures and songs

my soul, my being cries out to her
for
she is beauty

Echoes of the dead

Shadows of the living passing by
With a faint nod, or polite smile

In between those shadows
You can hear what’s been said
If you listen close enough
To the echoes of the dead

The faintest whisper of her favorite perfume
The sound of his favorite album in the living room
Above the things that we most dread
The echoes of the dead

Shadows of the past flitter by
Catch them from the corner of your eye

Underneath those shadows
You can hear what’s being said
If you listen to
The echoes of the dead

The barely audible cry that fades with the wind
The comfort of knowing that death isn’t the end
Believe that there is something more ahead
If you listen to the echoes of the dead

Shadows of what was, once, and what will never be
Finding hope while I’m still here, something to believe
I keep listening
To the echoes of the dead

Alone

Alone
And I don’t wish to be
I’d rather hold her hand
Enjoy her company
Us, alone

The rain beats steadily on the shutter
the rhythm sends me deeper
my mind is all cluttered
I seek and I find her
In a field of broken dreams
I see her beauty and smile
What can all this mean?
She’s been comatose for years
The needle took her away from me
Why these vision in the darkness?
Why is life such a mystery?
We were happy, in love
The days filled with vibrant life
But she couldn’t satisfy the need
She couldn’t be my wife

Alone now
My mind clears as the tears fall
The rain stops pouring
I wish I could erase it all
Make it go away
The machine seems the only thing alive
I hold her pale unmoving hand
Why can’t they let her die?
Her family is not ready to let her go
Let her die with a little dignity
But they cling to hope, and she lies
Hooked to the damned machine
I’ve felt so tempted
To set her free
Turn off the power
And end the misery
It’s not my place to, though
It’s not my choice to make
I would have made it long ago
For her imprisoned sake
There will be no recovery
She’ll always be this way
Yet there is some hope for me
I must learn to carry on
Live life as I should
Do the things we liked to do
Enjoy life like she would
It’s hard to move quickly
I have to move real slow
Take time for me to adjust
And let my feelings go
She's become an angel now
Even though the machine makes her breathe
She watches over me, I feel it
She sees exactly what I see
I lived for her these past few years
Now I live for me
I know she understands
That’s how she wants it to be

16 years

Sequin rattling, jumpy nerves
the tremble before the words
whirring camera racing by
that day is much a blur

parties gather, left and right
split by procession small
(history wiped out by the "Fly")
up in front: one is short, one tall

third floor food, honored guests
golden duster, wagon wheel
tired and happy, take a ride
best feeling I could ever feel

slept so soundly, caught a plane
to celebrate three unions - new
nowadays it's not the same
it's only me and you

the journey has made me who I am
And I would never second guess
if I would ever be anyone else
but forever, your "Gomez"


Happy Anniversary - I love you!

we

we don't have the same fears
we don't have the same thoughts
or dreams
or so it seems

we don't have the same wants
we don't have the same drive
or needs
so it seems

we don't have the same heart
we don't have the same soul
or faith
it seems

we don't have the same strength
we don't share the same love
or pain
or screams

or do we?

are we headed in different directions
on the same journey?
or on a different journey in the same direction?

are we striving for a common goal?
or a goal more common?

do we do what we know?
do we know what we do?

do we?

freelancing

Chicago, shady lawyer - strangled
Souix City, hooker - stabbed
LA, aspiring cokehead actress - OD
New York City, crooked cop - bludgeoned
Quebec, drug dealer - throat cut
Phoenix, mafia turncoat - burned alive
Portland, wife-beating athlete - run over with car

I followed him everywhere, two steps behind
never close enough to stop him, always close enough for the story

I never saw his face, never knew where he stayed
But I knew it was him
In every city
In every town, it was him


I hope the cops don't slow me down,
I might be able to interview him
get the truth about what drives him
why he does it, what he feels

I will catch him and talk to him
I know I can


Kansas City, reporter - tongue cut out

The seconds tick by...

It's hard for me to believe that I have been posting (pretty regularly too, I may add proudly) for a year now. When I started posting here, I wasn't sure if anyone would ever read what I posted. I'm pleased that I have a few loyal readers/commentors and several people that peek in from time to time. When I started I would check my posts every day and get disappointed if no one commented. Today, I'm more relaxed. I still do look for comments and I try my best to reply, but I do not get upset if my comment counter reads zero for a post.

I've been surprised that pieces that I considered some of my best work didn't garner any responses, while other pieces really touched a nerve in readers. Readers have had nothing but nice things to say about my writing. Even if someone had some criticism, I'd listen. I enjoy this very much and I strive to be entertaining, sometimes thought provoking but never dull. My poetry may never amount to anything (like a book, for example), but I hope everyone who stops by enjoys their visit and is inclined to visit again. That is enough reward for me.
Thank you for stopping by and I hope to hear from you.

DayDreamer

Wishful thinking

I've heard you say it before
"What I wouldn't give..."
for something, anything
that you found important

I wonder what you'd do
if that wish could possibly come true
What would you exchange
for the happiness you seek?

I wonder what you'd sacrifice
and how you'd pay the price?
For that defining moment in time;
would that complete your life?

Is there anything so important
that you'd give up part of yourself?
Something so significant
it's above everything else?

I know I cannot do it
it's not the way I live
spending my life saying
"What I wouldn't give...."

I choose to live and dream
instead of wish

In due time

I don't have my 1000 words
or my two pages of text
I don't have a catchy opening
I don't have a clue what comes next

Not a single interesting phrase
or word has garnered my attention
not a singluar useful idea
has come to full fruition

but I won't give up or whine
I won't curse my muse
there are a billion wonderful words
that I could always use

I will be patient
and I will wait out time
for the moment will arrive
and it will be all mine

without a map

where was I
at that moment
when the words found me
rather than I
searching
fruitlessly
for them?

where was I
when the emotion
unleashed, unbridled
broke the surface
and the ice
within?

where was I
when the anger
the love
the fear
and the desire
retreated enough
to see the truth?

where was I
when I put pen
to paper
fingers
to keys
idea
in motion
without fear?

where was I
and how do I return?

Inspired by, Part II: Stephen King

Okay, this may seem a little odd. Stephen King writes horror, right? He doesn't right poetry (or at least doesn't publish it.) That's true, but he was a huge inspiration to me when I began writing. His stories grabbed my attention and wouldn't let go. I'm talking early King, the days of Pet Sematary, The Shining, The Dead Zone, and Firestarter. After the Tommyknockers, I lost interest in King's writing. It didn't keep my attention as much as other writers. But those early books blew me away. I would read any King book I could get my hands on. It freaked me out with the clowns and drains; the coming back from the dead in Pet Sematary - I had trouble sleeping because I wanted to finish the book. And all his books were better than the movies (and the movies were awesome!)
I'm adding him here because I learned about writing with, and about, emotion from him. He uses fear, one of life's most powerful emotions, and takes it to a new level. I tried to emulate that with my early writing. I would dream up scenarios and storylines and write what I think he would write. Most of the stories were never any good - too predictable, too copied, too tired - but I learned the technique of using my emotions and getting them in poetry. I don't have King's patience for pounding out page after page; I like to get it done in simple verses and let the reader fill in the rest. It works for me right now; it's not that I'm lazy, my work is better in those short bursts (at least I think so.) Like Neil Peart, King showed me that I was only bound by my imagination and my willingness to try. I'm sure both writers are very critical of their work; show me a good writer that isn't. But they learned that even though you are critical, you have to let that baby out into the world and see what happens. Sometimes the results are less than satisfactory, sometimes they are stunning. And again, like Peart, King inspired me to pick up a pen (or typewriter, then computer keyboard) and get something out there. Try to entertain someone, even if only for a moment. Since those first few, feeble attempts at writing, I've learned so much. I learned to write for myself, but never settle for the first draft. I 've learned to dig deeper and translate the feelings I have into words. I've learned that not everyone will like it or even care, and that's okay. I've learned, with the indirect guidance of two masters, that I do what I do because I love it, because I can and because I want to. And as long as I do that, I can achieve anything.

out of season

the whisper fades faster than a summer day
the emotion swells like wheat in the Montana winds

radiant heat rises from an embarassed heart; cheeks blossom
the harvest, green and anxious, is reaped too early

and spoiled

I'm still here

I'm not sure what I am doing most of the time
and other times I'm in a bit of a funk
I try to focus but the edges are all rusty
like that nail that one summer
I'm trying to do the right thing but it gets all
upside in and outside down
and tangled like that slinky I used to love
and like that toy, some things cannot be untangled
unless you cut them, snip them, and sever the knot
or the cancer or the darkness, pull it out and cast it away
leaving a little less, still serviceable, but nothing quite the same
as the original
if it doesn't make you stronger, it'll probably make you fat
and ugly, because that's the image they project
those that mean something to someone, shallow,
perfect teeth, perfect chest, perfect abs, perfect lies
the disguise of beauty that hides the disgust and perversions that dwell
in the dark recess of the human psyche, even in those beautiful stupid
creatures

I'm still here

no more bitter than before, no less either
I see the stupidity and laziness and meanness and I feel sad
and angry and ashamed of us...the top of the food chain
the bottom of the dungheap

I try to teach but the willingness to learn isn't there
I try to guide but the directions are not taken
I try to understand but the impulse is lost to me

so I write and I watch and I think

I'm still here

Why?

The question so easily answered

I am smarter than this

(unscrew the cap and fill the glass again)

Clock: 12:38

Shit, I have to be up in 6 hours.

How can I be so weak?

black

the urge sulks away, leaving me empty and unfulfilled
basic sustenance will have to suffice for now
i try to open my eyes and fail to notice they were never shut
the stench of denial fills my soul, I mentally gag
and my eyes adjust to the watery light of a solitary
truth, yet it is too obscure to see clearly
it fades, ebbing and flowing into the eternal vacuum
lapping the alien shores of distant emotions,
never ending
like dying dreams with no place to rest, moving
from one entity to another dimension
beyond comprehension and reason
above the prayers and pleas
into the realm where all are equal
into the darkness
where I dwell
nowhere everywhere
no one everyone
nothing everything
they all fade
to
black

Sorrow

The silence deafens and the darkness blinds
weightless word pass from mouth to ear
eyes seek the floor as heads and hearts hang low
neither can face the other's fear

no one finds answers when the screaming prevails
and the confusion grows more and more unreal
as razor sharp tongues cut and slash
broken hearts take longer to heal

Minds (and hearts) wander to find better times
looking into the future or past
the future's unpredictable, and yesterday's gone
How can two souls make it last?

Anger rises and tempers flare
crushing a moment of retreat
The feelings are withered, there's nothing to share
the end makes the circle complete

When it started they'd die for one another
Living those special moments when they could smile
One grew apart and the other took for granted,
What's left to save and reconcile?

They both want something different,
yet something quite the same
One searches for it in the other
the other searches elsewhere in vain

Nothing can retrieve yesterday
nothing can guarantee tomorrow
The memories are all that will remain
when love melts into sorrow.

Inspired by, Part I: Neil Peart

I heard the song a few times, and it struck a chord. I was always a Rush fan, but this song grabbed me and it wouldn't let go. It was "Subdivisions", a song about peer pressure and life in the burbs. I was blown away and moved, moved so much that I picked up a pen and started to express myself in song lyrics. Over the years I thought of publishing those lyrics, but I know they really aren't that good (hey, I was 17, a walking hormone and in love for the first time. What did you write about at that age?) Maybe I'll publish them on the blog under the title "Songs Unsung" because they never actually blossomed into a real tune. Either way, those first few lines sent me down a path that I am grateful to have walked.

Like I said, the song inspired me and I started reading all of the lyrics written by Rush's drummer, Neil Peart. The man is truly gifted with drumsticks and with words. I had never heard a drummer of his caliber when I started listening to Rush, and there are very few I have heard since (the legendary Buddy Rich and Mike Portnoy of Dream Theater are exceptions.) But it's his perspective, rhyme and structure that rival the greatest of poets. He's clever, sharp and concise; he pulls you in and you relate. He paints such a vivid picture that one cannot help to see. Here's a few lines from Subdivisions:

"Subdivisions
In the highschool halls
In the shopping malls
Conform or be cast out
Subdivisions
In the basement bars
In the backs of cars
Be cool or be cast out"

When I heard those words, I had chills. He was writing about my life! And about life in general, of course. I figured I could do the same, and I do. Not half as well as him, if I must say so myself. But that's okay. His words gave me the courage to pen my thoughts, spill the emotions out in ink and own up to what I felt and feel. I grew significantly from that, at least internally. I was still shy and somewhat awkward (hell, I still am sort of awkward) but I have more confidence in my abilities. I felt like I got to know him through his words, and it's a friendship I value today (even though he has never heard of me.)
I recently purchased two books that Peart wrote. He has had a lion's share of tragedy in his life and he coped by writing and traveling. I'm looking forward to his story.

Here are a few more of my favorite lyrics from Neil Peart and Rush.

From The Pass :

"...it's not as if this baricade
blocks the only road
it's not as if your all alone
in wanting to explode

someone set a bad example
made surrender seem alright
the act of a noble warrior
who lost the will to fight..."

From Resist:

You can surrender
surrender without a prayer
buy never really pray
pray without surrender

you can fight
fight without ever winning
but never ever win
win without a fight"

From Freewill:

"If you choose not to decide
you still have made a choice"

Anyway, I could go on all night.

To Neil Peart I say thank you, thank you so much.

From the ashes of my life....

the self effacing humor
the digs toward oneself
get old and tired
much like life itself

the underlying problem
never breaking the facade
boils and builds below
it's just a huge charade

wearing masks a plenty
comedy, tragedy, pain
wearing out your welcome
like a dog stuck in the rain

Open hearts and open minds
never seem to dwell
around this very humble place
my personal private hell

don't you judge and don't you point
at me or at my ways
the end is coming soon enough
I need none of your delays

just remember this one thing
when you turn and walk away
tomorrow will begin anew
a chance with each new day

weep no more, shed no tears
and wash way the pain
move along, there's nothing left
the memories are insane

build upon the lessons here
never looking back
keep on moving right along
you know the right track

I will leave you with this wish
a promise in the stars
carry love with you everywhere
and you will surely go far

guilt devours and hate distorts
and jealousy is a flame
to burn within your very core
and leave you just the same

love endures, all of these things
love can last forever
nothing else even comes close
nothing else can deliver

Roulette

the finality, the promise of nothing more
the hopelessness, the want of relief

the bottle, half empty
the gun, half full

spinning round and round
round and round

heavy and cold, pressure on my temple
sweating but unafraid, finger resting firmly

on my fate

it's too late now
it's too late

Behind the curtain

I can hear you every now and then
when you are cleaning the house
or hanging the laundry
you sing beautifully

If the breeze is just right
I catch the heavenly aroma from your kitchen
savory scents from heaven
my mouth waters

You work in the garden on the other side of the fence
(It may as well be the Great Wall)
You sound happy tending to your flowers
fragrant when they blossom

I can feel the heat on my face
and I wonder what you like to wear
One glimpe
it would all be perfect

If I could only move this curtain

of blindness