When I Call You Home (song)

This tunnel keeps closing in,
a peripheral dimming, black vision.
My world is spinning away from me
rolling off the tip of a finger I can't see.
Cracking the floor, bringing thunder to my road
tears fall from my eyes...little lights of hope.

I remember how I loved laughing,
But I'm not laughing now.
Because through our small sins
You never budged an inch.
And now when I grow tired,
I grow alone.
But, when I'm inspired
I can call you home.

This engine is about to start,
the screech of a fast car humming with my heart.
The tires are burning free
crossing two white lines to misery.
Peeling up the asphalt on this thunder road
breaking ground on my one last hope.

I remember how I loved laughing
But I'm not laughing now.
Because through our small sins
You never budged an inch.
And now when I grow tired,
I grow alone.
But, when I'm inspired
I can call you home.
I used to call you home.

Admiring a Work of Art (poem)

I had the best time writing this poem.


I know you only as a work of art,
staring at your portraits sprinkled in my mind like stars.
Stone cold eyes; locked, loaded and fixated on me
but, as frigid as you think they appear, your big brown eyes
are melted down by some so much darker they are almost black...
focused,
but shaking from their own hurt and loss;
the rapid friction between lid and eye ball
causes them to water.

Still seeing the calm in yours though...
the tameness beyond the wild.
I bet that your touch is delicate.
I'm looking past your Picasso-painted nails
to imagine soft finger tips, leading
limbs that bend so delicately to another hand...
Weaving wonderful flesh baskets of warmth.

My ears, grown a fraction deaf from life's high volume,
listen to the vulgarities coming from your mouth...
the same four letters that I spew out daily are handled,
by my ears, with a cushion. A love for obscenity
because I know it's a mask for vigor and a cherishing
for life.

You could not possibly recognize your beauty
as I do. I am weathered...beaten, worn and wrought:
hurt and dying slowly, like everyone, but I'm aware of it.
And through awareness I see more than a pretty woman,
a wild woman, perhaps sometimes a cold woman...
I see a harness for compassion and a shoulder for
someone so lucky to rest on.
And my dark eyes close...only to dream of yours.

Bacon and Jenga (poem and song)

So a couple weeks ago a friend of mine asked me to write a poem about bacon and a song about Jenga...and I actually did it. We should all be able to have a bit of fun sometimes :)

BACON

It is, by no means, a delicate meat.
My morning salty, sizzling treat.

With eggs and ham
I'm now flipping you over in my flippidy frying pan.
Wearing my manly apron that says "I'm the cooking man."

Everyone is at the table and readily awaiting,
Holding their spoons and forks...anxiously salivating.

The toast was ready, buttered, and the biscuits were warm and flaking...
Then smoke filled the room, and everyone was pissed,
because I burnt the damn bacon.


JENGA SONG
I wish I could put it back, but now it's falling
down, down, down...

My dreams of winning big have now tumbled to the
ground, ground, ground...

You gotta play it safe to win the race
against gravity and your friends.
You gotta be real smart and pull the middle block
Or you'll never want to play Jenga again.
Oh, never play Jenga again...woo hoo  woo hoo

I shouldn't have pulled from the left and now this monolith is goin
down, down, down...

My buds are all watching me cry and not making a 
sound, sound, sound...

"This dude takes his Jenga seriously" "Yeah, he doesn't mess
around, round, round"

You gotta play it safe to win the race
against gravity and your friends.
You gotta be real smart and pull the middle block
Or you'll never want to play Jenga again.
Oh, never play Jenga again...woo hoo  woo hoo

Now the fun is over, you guys gotta go...
leave me with my sad blocks so I can practice alone.
Don't look at me like that, you won this time bro
But next time you're up in here I'm gonna Jenga you all the way home...

And you'll be goin down...down...down.

Mr. Misery (Poem)

OK SO...this poem has been a long time in the making. For those who don't know I have a series of sing-song poetry aimed towards adults...meant to be eerie and comedic...all about the man in this poem. The poems that feature him before this are "Look Closer" (written Sept. 2010) and "The Tired Man" (April 2011)...I gave the dates in case anyone wants to see the similarities.

As always, I'm open to anyone's thoughts...AND!!!!! I've said it before and I'll say it again...any topics that anyone wants me to write about, let me know in some way...and I will try my best to do it.

OK OK OK>>>>>>HERE IS THE POEM!


The sky is black, a suffocating tarp over the world,
with no spotlight shining down on Mr. Misery.
Alone.
No rain cloud follows him, or coal colored cats
crossing his path…Mr. Misery almost always fears now,
and never laughs.

Some say he lost his trust, others that he is just
a sad sack: his head tilts downward and he has a
parabolic shape for a back.

It carries the weight of love, guilt and all other troubles.
Mr. Misery never opens his mouth to let out the
pressure, he just folds further and further,
his hidden heart cannot be measured.

And all the colors mix together to make his clothes,
you would think it beautiful; but, even when
bright colors mix, darkness shows. They match
the voided, broken, eyes where the sadness grows.

Every day disappointed because every day seems
to ignore him. Mr. Misery wakes up with the hope
that today will finally groove and contour to him.

Then one day she came, with a posture perfect back and
bright sky eyes nowhere near the same as his…

She loved Mr. Misery, and his miserly miserableness
may have finally up and ended.

…but his heart started pounding,
until his heart expanded.

It popped out of his chest
and he died when his love
crash landed.

Imagine a Day (Poem...not set on the title though)

Ok...here is another poem, with a topic I was asked to write about. Turns out my heart isn't as cold as I thought.


Deep inside the belly of a home,
at the top of the stairs
and staring out a window,
I am reflecting on a willow tree.
Not weeping, but waving in the wind at me;
and I would like to think, through my thoughtful
reflection, that my imaginings are locked with yours.

These images take shape in clouded
thought bubbles, like speech boxes
in a comic book. But long enough to reach
you on the other side of the world.

The clouded thoughts of you are shrouded
with wispy wonderings…mental photographs
of what you could look like, if I remembered you…
if I know you. Either way I know I’m with you.

And looking up at the sky
I can almost see the curvature; a contact lens
sitting on top of a spiraling dome
and I’m left watching our reflection
and what my day would be like

waking up next to you. No makeup,
hair mussed up; but, I am up watching you
anyway. Beautiful anyway. And now I’m pleading
with you silently to open your eyes.
When you do, the color is a surprise every time,
like one of those things you can’t describe…too elegant
and vibrant to remember exactly how the hues went.

Once we are up and out of bed, we’ll jump in my car
and head for the ocean. The stereo is on, buzzing with
deafening rock n’roll…maybe we will lose our hearing
together. You brag about your singing and follow a song,
and you think that you’re good. I know that you’re wrong,
But I love you more that way.

I drive with one hand on the wheel and the other
on the selector, only because I’m hoping for you to hold it.
Longing for your slender fingers to tie knots with mine
and when they do, finally, I never want to stop the car.

But I will eventually, and I will get over you letting go.
Now we must lie down on the sand....stretched out
on our blankets and towels. Stressed out
about nothing. I will help you put on your lotion,
even though the stickiness gives me a gag reflex…but
your skin doesn’t. Smooth all the way to the small
of your back…and as I reach down, my lips land
on your neck. Not for long. A quick peck, just
to let you know I’m here and when you turn around
I will be, still.