Dead Fish (a poem)

All credit for image goes to WildAid.org

Dorsal fins cutting through the water
where all the minnows go –
if I were you I’d run for shore
instead of watching dinner and a show.

Instead you flop and flounder
indistinct against the water –
concerned with treading in place
while things are getting so much hotter.

It’s a shame for all them fish,
the ones that got caught far too soon –
they looked so playfully fun once,
now they’re bathed in blood beneath the moon.

When Once I was Dead

Credit to HDQWalls for the image.

Dirge on a river
winds lifting up a hymn.
Philosophical pondering
seeking solace on a whim.
Asking questions with no voice
the thoughts come like a sparrow,
cautionary tales spread far and wide
when all our lives are narrowed.
Dancing in the moment
dusk turns into night,
leave behind the mortal coil,
set gaze and erupt in flight.

Winter Devilry

The Devil Makes Three

Duplicate that hardened flow of hate
which wrestles inside our hearts-
where blood will pump and agitate
those impulses which never stop.

Find wisdom in the madness shared
the endless beat of noise against-
where blood will pump and glare
these impulses which hit intense.

Jump the hoops and tangled webs
that wash across our veins-
where blood will pump and slowly ebb,
these impulses aren’t all sane.

Damn each fellow man beneath a river of coal,
driven by demons he’s never met-
who haunt him during times of hope,
scald his soul despite the snow.

Pink Stuff

Credit for photo to: blog.writersdomain.net

Damaged in an intrinsic way
which belies the way we think,
I’ve settled now in harmless times
with glasses casting shades of pink.

Never say the world is tough
or filtered with what’s unfair,
in desperate times when life sucks
take the cue and be aware.

So crinkling in memorized skin
and dancing with memories come neigh,
I’ve taken solace in the work being done
strive always to hold my head up high.

Plasticity in that neural net
the one which directs the play,
regrows the joy that fear had stole
and gives birth to come what may.

Ink Speaks & Words Share

All credit for image to Project Interfaith

Pen me a story all pelted with pain–
I’ll send you a memory quite completely insane.
Pen me a story all covered in scars–
I’ll whisper you love underneath the stars.
Pen me a story all wrapped up in joy–
I’ll rip off the paper and play with your emotional toys.
Pen me a story all soaked in ambition–
I’ll congratulate you from a distance and hope for fruition.
Pen me a story all righteously proud–
I’ll admiringly stand and clap just as loud.
Pen me a story devoid of suffering or shame–
I’ll question how long you lived and whether you played the game.
Pen me a story short on words but big on feel–
I’ll embrace your passion that fills me with zeal.

For each story you write and each tale that you tell,
connection is made as we all walk this road of life to the final farewell.
Strangers no more as the wording unfolds,
your experiences are more valuable then ever would be gold.
Friend since you vulnerably shared to cross the divide,
forever you’ll find my acceptance as I stand by your side.
We all start alone until our experiences happen,
no one need stand lonely feelings that they’re trapped in.
A world without others who have felt all the same–
if you’re missing companionship then drop any shame.
Drop any pretense or false facing thoughts–
your loveable for you, now and until time itself stops.

Spider Goddess

All credit due to REA Gallery through Fine Art America

Outside the borders
of this unquiet mind,
sit eons of wisdom
woven as invisible mesh most fine.
Alone sits Arachnae,
that fate wielding bug,
completely immersed
playing God string by string,
thud by thud.
We’d settle for reality
if only for thinner air,
know what’s happening,
get right-sized and repaired.
But truth hangs us all,
the devoted or mellow.
Chokes down in the craw,
suffocating like an ungenerous fellow.
So let’s sit side by side,
have a novel discourse.
Talk free will or destiny,
while the galactic spider calls for a hearse.

Turning Inward

Credit for the photo above to the Brahm Centre

Catatonic repose
affect flat and bare
thoughts locked in mid-battle
weaving chaos enough to wear.
Halcyon days
under visions of winter sun so bright,
sitting with view turned in
reflecting fiercely in that light.
Mindfulness resides
focuses on action, body, and soul,
a smile branches out
as new knowledge chases out the cold.

Personal Accountability

I’ve savaged myself that the tears stopped coming
and all that I worked for became a blur,
a host of lost memories never to be rediscovered.
I demolished those around me,
took no pity on their love or their affection
just danced with my devil selfishly until it all ran bare.
I gave away lifetimes of joy and moments of glee,
the kind that you’re blessed to find once
much less time and time again.
In the end,
it was never worth it,
and though I can never take it back,
I can walk taller now with each day
despite my stumbles,
each day I will find the win,
become something more.

Fucking Depression

Frustrated depression man in the hood sitting on wooden bridge near the beach on sunset. Concept of unemployed sadness depressed and human problems – yeah, what they said.

There’s a damp wetness that hangs inside

like some putrid pit you cannot shake.

It consumes and expands within you

always seeking to find new areas

ones that are filtered with love or confidence,

special and precious to defining who you are.

As the viscosity of the pit expands

you become enveloped in a melancholy,

a great creeping sadness that obliterates joy.

Dreams become suffocated,

ambitions become fantasies not to be attained,

emotions roll dead and to the beat of failure,

the internal monologue becomes a tirade,

life itself becomes a chore,

and one that is hardly worth the effort.

Enveloped in that wet darkness,

it takes great strength to continue on,

Each soldier who walks that path,

fights a monster inside and well beyond

anything that you can touch or taste,

Merry be the wounded ones who chose to fight,

their battle is so often invisible,

that others aren’t aware of the war being fought,

It is though,

one screaming resistance and determined action at a time,

they battle against something never asked for,

never wanted,

always waiting,

Tactile

All credit to Zora @ Medium for the image.

Tactical with your hands
the way you smooth my skin
beneath fingers so cool.
A promise held in your palm
where it blends away pain
into pressure and pleasure.
Your touch sifts away the world,
leaves me gasping in relief
that we are not alone.