ripple in time

 

 

There's a ripple in my time
that knows it has lost it's way
and the children of today
they're weary to look to the morrow
for the stained streets we've set to borrow
permanently
with occupied nations
military rule
dictating to dictators
a democracy run by a fool
with lies and deceit
they've lost it complete
so it's back to the street
to see if this country still has a heartbeat

it's not about politicians and war
it's not about conquests and monetary gains
it's about filling the solar plexus
with stained glasses windows and panes
into the soul
where windows open revelation
and revolution and challenge the status quo
to bring in to the know
how to find a beating heart
in a nation so torn apart

Please open your insides
let them spill out on to the sidewalk
and when those riches start to cling clang
on the concrete
let the bum pick em up and buy a bottle of vino
let him tip his bottle to you

let the night get drunk on your generosity
and when morning comes
see that you saved enough to fuel
to warm your home
and nothing more

Please drop off your dirty laundry
at the cleaners
let them clean your cum stained dress
let them take another inch out of the
waist band of your trousers
pick em up on your way home to
spend the evening with your kids

put aside the shame of your life
put aside the fame in your strife
show me you got what it takes
to put up with all the fakes

the children of today
aren't gonna wait around
to hear words meant to be profound
they want action and strength
someone willing to go to any length

so reach deep inside
grab that muscle in your chest
pull it out through rib bones
let us hold up it's beat
to the wind
let it travel it centrifical circles
gaining speed as is spins
punch a whole in it's cadence
sending shockwaves to
to the oceans and altering the course
of the atlantic current
melt icebergs with the shift
of salt water content
throw your weight around the tides
and show your ripple in time

poet-ess

I want a poet-ess

her words will wear a sundress

but not a princess

she'll be my perfect word mistress

she'll leave my mind in distress

as she walks away to undress

she might even belong to another

we'll hide in alleyways

under gnat covered shimmering flourescent

she'll have a forked tongue

telling me which direction to run

we'll sit in the front seat

with buckets tilted back

groping images of each other in the dark

throwing spit covered serenades

with the words wrote from lonely poems

before we found each other

we'll be left with

sober wet tongues

racing hearts

she tears the stanza's off my body

digging her nails into my back

accupuncture needles in my spine

with an epidural to block the pain of birthing new poems

she'll hear my voice

make a conscious choice

to be my poet-ess

when I find myself needing words of inspiration

she'll stencil lyrics with charcoal

and smear the words from black and white

to primary colors

she'll wash away with pastel paint

the tears I dream in color

and when I need to breath deep

she'll read poems to me about nature

and nurture

and which came first

the seed filling the womb

or the womb that was placed

in the body of a goddess

and after nine months

springs forth and births life

and to that shelter I seek to return

she'll hear my voice

make a conscious choice

to be my poet-ess

she'll be my morning haiku

crafting each syllable with precision

leaving nothing to chance

she'll know my desperation for romance

she'll read to me from Keats

and slowly climb under the sheets

spriklings petals of roses on cotton blend

give in to me and help me mend

she'll hear the satisfaction from my mouth

leaving no doubt

she's heard my voice

made a conscious choice

to be my poet-ess

cloudy 73

 

it was a cloudy day in what felt like 73
grandma loved Elvis
he played a really big show
with white sand beaches
lost holidays
the embrace of the world
where a billion saw the King strut and cry

I remember sitting and spinning
to Shake
and love me tender
and then I sat still
and watched the King
make everyone cry
cuz he wasn't gonna be there much longer
and grandma would cry
a thousand tears
when the King took his own life
with a bottle of pain
and a swallow of pills that shut down
the hero
with the shake
that moved the hips and made girls swoon
he died a few years later
and on his lips
my grandmas soul shifted
and she lost her King

I think she loved him more than any other
and I think that she knew
he loved her the same way

and because there were cold nights
where she was all alone
he was on the road
she was day sleeper
and she listened to him
when he wasn't there
and she'd see him on the screen
she knew he loved her
and she was devoted
she had all his albums

she listened to him
and he listened to her
he made her smile
and that didn't come often

and sometimes
in his later years
we made fun of her devotion
when he became a man
instead of just a boy
like with all do
with pot bellies
and bad style

but she loved him then
just as much as when he hit the scene
and that why
when the King died
grandma was never the same

when she used to smile
she only cried
when she used to sing
she only became silent

when he stopped singing to her
the dust gathered on records
and needles stopped playing sweet music
on 45's and 33's
and when the records stopped playing
she stopped living and dreaming
and soon found she wasn't smiling often

never like she did
on beaches
over air waves
in a time when she needed a king
on that cloudy day in 73

witch in time

that's where it starts
with half step kisses
falling on the sides of cheeks
embraced over drinks and haze

our hearts break
we smile
in some sort of way we find ourselves
while lost in others
we smile
we know we've found only one note
to a melody worth repeating

a chorus lies waiting
a verse to sculpt
a chapter to write
of fiction
the kind you create
where happy endings are trite
but you decide how the plot goes

you sit in one of those directors chairs
with megaphone in hand
telling things to the world
that you could shout
and still hear a pin drop

that's how it starts
with simple plans
and long nights flying solo
in the back seat
of the Red Baron bi-plane
ripping through 1936
smoke trailing
dervishes whirling
and you finally realizing
that you were born in the wrong time
a captain of Tenille
a princess without a pea
a sleeping beauty without a kiss

you write the songs
you read the tales
it's not long
until your heart prevails

brother T

 

when he got quiet
I knew poems were going off in his head
like bombs dropped
sleepless nights in warm mud and rain
when he got quiet
I knew compositions were being written
in between sanity and solution
in between peace and war
without haste
he wrote in his mind
as he thought thoughts
and as he remembered
the days when memory lane was paved
with youth and goals and simple things
then he found himself
dripping in the warm rain
and the cold nights
away from the world
in a world where memories
last a lifetime
and memories are smashed
numbed and snuff out whenever possible
in the jungle

in another world
scrutinized by media
wounded by time
left alone in the dark
for battles won
wars lost
and time forgiving
the pain, the rain, the voice
healing from within I see him write poems
in between sanity and brilliance
in between war and peace
in between love and brother
sister and mother
I see him write poems
when he's quiet and alone

Santa's Pharmacology

 

I know an old dude named Santa
Who went in search of a cabana
See he was tired of cold and freezing days
Sitting up north lost in a frost bitten gaze

Seasonal affective disorder the docs said
He took prescriptions that went straight to his head
So he took off to find,
tropical delights in kind
Away with the sleigh
And this freezing delay
It's off to find sun and some fun

No more scripts for Santa
He's just not jolly enough without...
booze in his shoes
pot in his pot
beer with his deer
and schnapps with old pops!

So let's give Santa a break
maybe even bake HIM a cake
no more North Pole
or elves on the dole!

He's left it all behind
way too hard of a grind
So no toys this year children I'm afraid
If that was so important he would have stayed
Instead Santa's down in the carribean

gettin' fuckin' laid!

my little boy

 

I listen to his lullaby
and can't believe
he walks with light steps
usually dancing in his shoes
he's got ants in his pants
and he's taking off
on strings of violins
pulled tightly to his toes
he dances
just by being
he feels deep
and fills me deeper

he forces his way
onto my lap
climbing the mountain
known as Dad
without the guide of a Sherpa
he takes great pains to set anchor
to unsure holds
pulls himself to the summit
perched in my lap

he wants to guide my hands
he breaths his breathe on me
and winter feels like a warm summer day
with hot sand and soft wind

he smiles his smile at me
and I know that
my path through the forest
starts with a seed planted
in a sanctuary
that is sometimes lost
and buried like treasure from a ship set to sea
without which he would not be

I never regret
and then I never regret again
with his hand in my mine
he brings out the sunshine
my little boy, my little boy