Spark Of Life – Your Touch –

“I’ve told you the four thunderstorms – disappointment, frustration, unfairness and isolation. You cannot avoid them, as like the monsoon they will come into your life at regular intervals. You just need to keep the raincoat handy to not let the spark die”
Seen it come and seen it go, many days high, many days low.
Something about creating, lets me see.
Something about feeling it come over me,
Bringing a spark of life to everyday things.
Without your touch those words will die were they fell.
Without your touch those marks are lost in gray hell.
Without your touch those plans are hard to tell.
Bringing a spark of life to everyday things.
Seen it come and seen it go, many days high, many days low.
Something about creating, lets me see.
Something about feeling it come over me, 
Bringing a spark of life to everyday things.

First published in

Outside Night –

 “We can easily forgive a child who is afraid of the dark; the real tragedy of life is when men are afraid of the light.” – Plato

I’m hiding in this darkness so long
That I don’t remember light.
I thought I’d open a window and see
What lives outside the night.
But on the glance of what should be hope,
I was blinded by the ray.
I never knew that light could

cause me this much pain.
But its warmth had a touch and
A sight of what could be,
I was still scared by the pain of knowing
That I really wasn’t free. 

The prison I was locked in is
A cage of my own design.
Only I could use a key of faith
One had left for me to find.

Breaking the hardened seal
of my sepulchered life,
I blinked back tears at
What’s outside night. 

Also published in Broowaha
First published in Opinions Of Eye

Seeing A Thought

“I realize there’s something incredibly honest about trees in winter, how they’re experts at letting things go.” ― Jeffrey McDaniel


Seeing a thought, though it long past
How your touch and kiss, both would last
The wind in the trees, of my looking mind
Washed the slate clean, with the rain of time
Flitting rare bird, that affection of yours
I crawl through, the closing doors
Seeing a thought, though I longed it so
Touching the dreams, I let you go.


Second Hand

“Of course there had been clues. A bite of the lip. An indrawn breath. Wrinkled brows and shrugged shoulders. A few false starts at conversations about work and balance, but the real alarms should have gone off when all of that faded.”
Zoe York, Between Then and Now 

With the wind she tickled the grass

conducting music in the sand

She came, she went, with all she did,

she did in the second hand

Just another throw away, moved from

trash can to trash can

Coming to pick me, broken, used, always

holding the second hand

Lines of age with gray that casts away

at once I understand

There’s always a way for love to free

me from the second hand

Taking those clocks and finding a way

to trash the limited man

Time is the victim she said to me,

it’s killed by the second hand

Hours in the great divide, no worries,

content with just a stand,

In the present we all can feel the touch

of the second hand

I Miss Me

 “There are two questions a man must ask himself: The first is ‘Where am I going?’ and the second is ‘Who will go with me?’ If you ever get these questions in the wrong order you are in trouble.”
Sam Keen,
Fire in the Belly: On Being a Man

I gave you my desire,
I gave you my fire,
I gave you my touch
I loved you so much

I gave you my labor
I gave you my anchor
I gave you my shield
I loved you to yield

I gave you my years
I gave you my tears
I gave you understanding
I loved you unending

I gave you my nights
I gave you my rights
I gave you my soul
I loved you to be whole

I gave, you took
I gave, you turned
I gave, you went
I gave, I miss me…. 

Also published in Broowaha 

Like Heroin – Addicting pleasure

“It was what she imagined doing heroin would be like: terrible for you but impossible to resist.” –  Libby Schmais, The Essential Charlotte

Your fire melts me, held in the spoon of your love

Your hands draw pleasure deep,

In a gentle push your seduction overcomes me

Your touch brings me peace, like heroin in my soul

Slight touch, sliding into my conscious will

Deep warmth creeping into the void

Gentle smiles invade empty rooms

Your touch brings me sleep, like heroin in my mind

I chase hand blazed trails with my eyes

Hoping to breath in your essence

Unnatural pleasure this thing you do

Your touch is addicting, like heroin in my body

Also published in Broowaha


Misfits – Solitude of I

“…misfits. We do not fit into this world without amputations.”
– Marge Piercy
 “All the colors of they are not the color of I

In mimicry I taint the skin of me

All the sounds of they are not the sound of I

In mimicry I change the voice of me

All the dances of they are not the moves of I

In mimicry I perform awkward ways

All the hopes of they are not the future of I

In mimicry I pretend a winning destiny” 

Waking in an unseemly state, I look around at my world of unbelonging. The crazy thing is that in my head is where my world is. It’s where the torments of mockers echo for years, where the pain of violence stings long past the healing of the body. I stay alone in my room, dark is how I like it there. My cave is where solitude commands my death of a thousand cuts. Each cut a remark, an injury, a symptom, a mental deficiency that demands my obedience to awkward and unusual ways. When I open my door and come out to play with society, my mimicry is perfected. Hidden beneath my smiling ways are necrotic tendencies that mortify normalcy. I reach out in the dark, on my bed, reaching out to an invisible God who seems to answer but in the most subtle and barely noticeable ways. What I want is a touch, a physical touch. It is not HE that answers physically but when another misfit finds me, then we both realize that we are not alone, but we belong to a group that will never stay together by virtue of our mental disabilities. Like magnets we are, spinning off the negatives of each other…no hold for my anchor, sending my vessel into dire straights.