First Edition

  

 

First Edition
 
 
Phill Bradley

© 1989

 

            Perfect Poem

  

            We would not want a perfect verse

            For all our minds would be the same

            And all our words be good, or worse,

            Looked upon as placid, tame.

            Lines would leap for everyone

            Or melt upon the page for more.

            And all the themes we'd write about

            Would be the dreams we'd had before.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I Suggest

 

You Attempt

 

We Evaluate

 

 

Head On

 

   Vote for a change of pace.

      Time borrows -

       Future takes past's place

   For a while and yesterdays become

      Tomorrows.

  Slowly shift to advance.

      It pays

      To lay down proven plans

   To leave no chance to lose in

       Coming days.

  A rush is certain to bend

      The item,

       Hurt the thing you vend.

   So push, but give a little bit,

      And fight'em.

                                                                 Back Up Slowly

 

                                                                                                Back up slowly, tip over

                                                                                                Not.

 

                                                                                                Ollie bought

                                                                                                the wrong belief

                                                                                                Thought

                                                                                                he'd take a small relief

                                                                                                And let attention drop.

 

                                                                                                A smooth routine slipped

                                                                                                Up.

 

                                                                                                Ollie saw

                                                                                                the salty grief

                                                                                                Wrought

                                                                                                into his handkerchief

                                                                                                And sought no solace stop.

 

                                                                                                Back up slowly, tip over

                                                                                                Not.

 

                       

 

Alibi

 

 

        I do admit my alibi

        Was partly fib, was more a lie,

        Was morally a wrongful act,

        But, served its purpose - that is fact.

 

        I did not wish to hurt or harm

        My image with this false alarm,

        But, lesser evil's necessary

        When choosing burdens best to carry.

 

        I did not want to bruise your pride;

        But, with my news you sobbed and cried.

        I lied to others, you might guess,

        But, just to you I did confess.

 

        I'm not ashamed, no, not a bit -

        I did it for your benefit.

        And next time when I seem sincere,

        I'll trust you not to trust me, dear.

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                                          Commitment

 

 

                                                When women get you wound

                                                            they sit you down and make demands

                                                                                    no man

                                                                                          can

                                                                             understand.

 

                                                So, don't commit to woman's

                                                            fit unless you'd like to choose

                                                                                     to lose

                                                                                 your life 

                                                                                       for it.

 

 

 

          Analyze

 

 

      Unknot the issue,

      Make it clearer to the content,

      Examine in the mirror

      From the angle of best judgement,

      For the hearer doesn't listen

      With an unbiased opinion,

      And the one who doesn't

      Ponder squanders diamond

      Mind dominion.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                     Establishing A Proper Sense of Tense

 

                                                                                    Growed is grew,

                                                                                    And throwed is threw,

                                                                                    But, through the throat,

                                                                                    It flowed, not flew.

 

                                                                                    And in the boat

                                                                                    Oars rowed, not rew,

                                                                                    Though o'er the road

                                                                                    We went, not goed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                      

 

              Inexperience

 

 

       Your head's in the stars, darling,

                Get down to earth

           'fore you're under the ground, darling,

                Under the dirt

           Or under the sea, darling,

                Drowned in your tears,

           When you realize the skies cannot

                Bury your fears.

 

       The glow from the sun, darling's,

                Blinded your eyes,

           And continues to scare as you stare

                In the skies.

           I care for your future

                And advise that you hide

           Your face from the sun rays

                And regain your pride.

 

       For faults of the youth, darling,

                Oft can be saved;

           Oft can be rocked back

                And locked in their grave,

           Or shot down to death, darling,

                Frozen in space -

           And once they've been conquered,

                The heavens become safe.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 Of Love

 

 Of Hate

 

 

                 Love, Instead

 

 

        When I was five, a gentle nudge

        Tapped me on the head.

        I thought it was an education -

        And it was.

 

        When I was ten, a shotgun shell

        Grazed me on the chin.

        I thought it was a soccer ball -

        And it was.

 

        When I was fifteen, a poisoned arrow

        Pierced me through my heart.

        I thought it was death and I was dead -

        And it was

 

       Love, instead. 

 

       

                                                                    To Say At Start

 

                                                                        You lanced my chest, but missed my heart,

                                                                        I missed the chance to say at start,

                                                                        I loved you from the first stray glance,

                                                                        I pray romance will never part.

 

                                                                        I treated you like rock and stone;

                                                                        The stock we seeded, undersown.

                                                                        Our Paradise was overweeded,

                                                                        Stranded, set apart, alone.

 

                                                                        And though I sought to make things right,

                                                                        You've got to know deep down inside,

                                                                        That carefree spirit, now below,

                                                                        Would show again before he died.

 

                                                                        So now he's dead, but I'm the same

                                                                        As when you vowed to keep my name,

                                                                        So please return and I'll be sure

                                                                        To live and learn, and burn our flame.

 

                                      Twogether

 

                                                I'm almost empty, fill me up,

                                                Make me know completeness,

                                                Accessorize my barren guise

                                                With size precise and sweetness.

 

                                                You are my inverse, true enough,

                                                Strange, you are attracted -

                                                A bar of gold to my unsold

                                                Misshapened mold of plastic.

 

                                                It's been an era since I felt

                                                This purr inside my torso -

                                                A union true, of bright and blue,

                                                Like dawn and dew, but more so.

 

                                                A mystic Merlin magic trick

                                                Was never such illusion;

                                                It's much too grand for human hand -

                                                Our hearts have planned this fusion.

 

 

 

                               Your Scorn Does Not Scorch

 

                                                You gave me a reason

                                                To sit out the season,

                                                To throw in the towel,

                                                To talk about treason.

 

                                                And doubtless you did it

                                                To trick me and treat me

                                                Like dead meat, and beat me,

                                                And roast me to eat me.

 

                                                You jam in a jaw full

                                                Like I was a waffle,

                                                And jack me back out -

                                                So vengeful, so awful.

 

                                                But I don't reject all the

                                                Thoughts you project toward me -

                                                For time that you spend on me

                                                Just shows your respect for me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Thoughts On a Moment's Hesitation

 

 

Was it wonder?  Was it thunder as she set my heart asunder with a watery gaze?  Were my eye-whites wide and dazed?  Did it seem unimportant to talk about it then, when all I wanted was to get her message once again?  Did I laugh?  Did I cry?  Did she ever tell me why I was the target for her charm and her affection?  If I point out all her faults, will she water down my salts, will she grab me, make me waltz, or feign rejection?  Is it fate and good intention?  Is it Mother of Invention?  Is it man and wife or even friend to friend?  It's a story, it's a fable as the truth is on the table, as the facts are in the open to defend.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Precious Sessions

 

    Friends from friends have drifted far, for fear of failure's face,

                and lose last life in loneliness

                erased by terror's raze.

    Two take the time to tete-a-tete, two tell a thought, two talk,

                and one with one with noone walks.

                These are precious sessions sought.

 

 

By Force

 

       By force you shook me and took all my forts.

       I was down on all fours for forever.

       With swords you attacked; my back became sores

       And the source of all sorts of endeavor.

 

       My horse was beaten by Cretans in hoards,

       Exhortation made me hoarse from repeating.

       During the course of the battle my corps became corpsed;

       With coarse cords they bound me for beating.

 

       Aboard, set the sail; the old mission aborts.

       Remember the boards they bore up against us.

       Our rewards will be plenty, and many our wars,

       And our wards will be warned what incensed us.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

    Letter of Reconciliation

 

 

 

     Dear Bullies who Beat me for Money,

 

         I Bought me a Knife with a Thin-Lipped Grin, then a Gun with

a Clip so I'd have Time to reAct, and I Bought some deFenses, some biNocular

Lenses, and Hired some Bouncers for Personal conTact.

 

         I disCovered my Payment was not quite Reasonable, so now I'll

pay you Back.

 

                                        With Bad inTent,

                                        Vic Tim Ized 

 

 

 

 

 

   The Minuteman's True Love

 

 

     I love the white daisies

     In the palm of your blue hand.

     You're grand.  You're grand.

     On the linen canvas

     You were perfectly planned.

     You're grand.

 

     You are Cezanne, Monet, Rodin,

     And Mondrian with his lines,

     A swan with his fine lines,

     A white-eyed girl,

     With a candy cane swirl,

     As precious as pearl

     And diamond designs.

 

     I love the white daisies

     In the palm of your blue hand,

     And, I'd drop all things planned 

     In a minute, man, to make minimal

     The loss of a Ross original.

 

 

 

 

                                         Strange Young Girl

 

 

                                                                        A strange young girl,

                                                                        She caught my eye.

                                                                       Not outgoing, and shy was she.

 

                                                                        I asked her out,

                                                                        We sat in the cinema,

                                                                        She daintily smiled at me.

 

                                                                        She liked to sew,

                                                                        Made me a pillow,

                                                                        We lay down, she started to sing.

 

                                                                        A talented girl

                                                                        With a heart of pure gold,

                                                                        And that means everything

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 Flip Sides

 

 

 

 

 Flip Sides

 

 

Marbled, mottled, calico                      /   Plain and solid, lying low

Shouting, doubting, chances taken /   Sitting, paling, lost, forsaken         

Never bored, a good reward          /  Loser boy, you must awaken.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                             Innocence and Ignorance

 

 

                                    Innocence or Ignorance?

                                    There is a subtle difference,

                                    Though neither knows,  

                                    One's been exposed

                                    And then it chose to shun it hence.

 

                                    The Innocent did not forget,

                                    For getting information nyet,

                                    They weren't told

                                    How tales unfold,

                                    How bleak and cold the road ahead.

 

                                    The world is full of heady doubt,

                                    To trap and wrap man in its crowd.

                                    The Ignorant few

                                    Wait for rescue -

                                    The Innocent figure it out.

 

    

 

 

 

 

 

                                     

                             Trust

 

 

                        Once, long ago, our bungalow

                        Was made of sticks and dung, you know,

                        And though it had no door to slow

                        The theives that frequent, come and go,

                        We felt that when the men who then

                        Would steal the hen from out her pen

                        Could steal inside our den again

                        With bad intent to rend us dead,

                        Yet, it never happened, friend.

 

                        Now my shack is ne'er unlocked;

                        The stocks are packed,

                        Flintlocks unracked and cocked,

                        And walk of cop outlined in chalk.

                        You choose to lose not just your shoes,

                        But thews, and bruise anew,

                        Sudue to fools who booze

                        Sans rules of whose is whose.

 

 

 

 

                             Push to Non Sequitur

 

 

                        Symbol of starkness, granite hewed gavel

                        Broke it, smashed into gravel, the grit in the pit,

                        Where man sandled walks in

                        With rough handled oxen

                        To try to bring life out of it.

 

                        Symbol of innocence, verdant hued places

                        Thriving, blooms an oasis and cobalt blue fall,

                        Where man puts his blocks in

                        With hazardous toxin

                        To try to make sense of it all.

 

 

 

 

 

 

                  Much to Find

 

 

       She thinks that poetry should be

            insightful, soft, delightful.

       He thinks men who pen the stuff

             are certainly not men enough.

 

       When poets aim to entertain

             The brains of every gender vein,

       The task is tough to ascertain

             Because it's rough to ask and name

       What every his and her concur

             To be the thing that they prefer.

 

       I try to write and stir the sight, so, women,

             Use your acumen of humankind and then

       You men just pick a cryptic script and get

           Christied, Marpled, and Sam Spaded. 

       Appreciate the clues created.

 

 

 

 

 

                                           Perfect Couple

 

                                                            Classic lines and

                                                                        Stout interior

                                                            Depict the figure grand he rests -

                                                                        With sparkled eyes

                                                                        And chuckled chin,

                                                                        From deep within he greets his guests.

                                                            A man of power, style, grace,

                                                            Important in the parts he plays.

 

                                                            Classic lines and

                                                                        Soft interior

                                                            Depict the figure calm she rests -

                                                                        With high-set cheeks

                                                                        And gentle glow,

                                                                        From outward shows she knows her guests.

                                                            A woman, elegant, with taste,

                                                            And all important parts well-placed.

 

                             You See

 

 

       You see the reflection in a coal-black pot,

       A brilliant rainbow, and rain there is not,

       The sun, there is none,

       The sky, 'tis night,

       And high,

       Though I ought, I

       See darkness, not light.

 

       You hear a chorus from a stage with no choir,

       A symphonic deluge, no piano, no lyre,

       No score to adore,

       No aire for my ear,

       And the sound

       Of a round I found

       Nowhere near.

 

       You look to the future with no crystal ball,

       I look on the past, and, though I see it all,

       My past keeps on leaving

       Me staring

       At nothing

       And feeling

       Small. 

 

       Oh! 

            Show me Infinity!  Eternity.....

                        And I'll be the pupil with vision you see...

    

                        And, I'll silence Niagara, that powerful fall...

    

 

                                                            I'll bridge the Pacific...

 

 

 

                                                            I'll scale the Great Wall...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 Concentric

 Dreams

 

           Unconscious

 

         Cobblestone bones

         Make me lie down.

         Eyelids lead-light

         Blot out the night

         And days.

 

         Do not disturb me,

         I will not awaken.

         Dreams are too real

         And full of appeal

         And peace.

 

         You cannot destroy

         Concentric dreams,

         For if one breaks

         The one above takes

         Its place.

 

 

 

                                                Dark Is Better Sometimes

 

                                                            Drawn.  Shut.  Lights down, down, off.

                                                            Seated far from wall or window.

                                                            Sight is gone and other senses

                                                            On.

                                                           

                                                            Silence, then relaxed, then Crash!

                                                            And close your eyes

                                                            And colors fly in a pattern wild,

                                                            Whisked away.

                                                            Dreams of walking, light outside.

                                                            Spy a bird on a limb far away.

                                                            And you are there

                                                            And the crowd is cheering behind you...

                                                            Boo.

 

                                                            Open eyes and room still dark,

                                                            But, not as dark.

                                                            A shape, a table, a switch on the wall.

                                                            And light is back, blinding.

                                                            Dark is better sometimes.

 

 

              Price of Protection

 

 

        Umbrella held so carefully

        That nothing can come down on me

        While I'm waiting for the Mid-Express.

        Across the street the rain attacks

        A woman in a yellow dress

        With no umbrella.  See her dash?

        Defenseless in the sprinkly mess.

 

        I hold umbrella close to me,

        The woman looks across the street,

        Above my head rests her sighting

        And water gets into her eyes

        As she squints to read the writing.

        She tries to cross the street in vain,

        Helpless, splashes through the gutter.

        My umbrella fends the rain,

        My umbrella blocks the water.

        Then I watch the pelted woman

        Contest the downtown traffic scene.

        With gaze now lowered comes toward me.

 

        She wasn't looking at the sign

        But dry umbrella shade all mine.

        I saunter down the street a-ways

        Then slow my pace and turn around

        And see the woman wetted down

        Reach my sidewalk, then reach the sign.

        She reaches up above the place

        Where my umbrella sheltered me,

        And lodged above, a soggy

        Hundred-dollar bill I did not see.

        She smiled at me and my umbrella,

        Turned away, and splashed across the street.

 

        I guess the fighter in the field

        Is also blinded by his shield -

        A good defense prevents a death,

        But, in a sense, allows defeat.

 

 

 

 

 

 

       Overton Bridge

 

 

        Let's step across

        Overton Bridge

        To look over here

        From yonder side;

        To experience things

        Never been tried.

 

        I walked one day

        On Overton Bridge.

        I fell in the river,

        Fell over the side ,

        Got chilly and wet,

        But, eventually dried.

 

        And again I tried

        To cross Overton Bridge.

        Once more I fell,

        Twice I'm denied,

        But I made it across

        Further this ride.

 

        Overton Bridge

        Leads only to forest.

        The river it's over

        Is not very wide,

        But, it sends us a message of futility.

        Of humility it serves as a guide.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Empty Hull

 

        The empty hull

           was just a shell,

           not full of water was the well,

           and no one knew enough to tell

        the leader of the clan.

 

        He called the man

           who dug the pit

           to try to make some sense of it,

           and bit by bit the pieces fit

        to make the picture clear.

 

        "What we have here,"

           the builder said,

           "was once with water, now is dead,

           for '22 was dry, I dread

        a year like that again.

 

        "I saw it when

           a cloud had formed

           above the well where air was warmed

           and grew until it broke and stormed

        upon our wilting crops.

 

        The pelting drops,

           the pouring rains,

           saved our brown and dry terrains,

           and now the well is what remains,

          a monument for these domains

        which now are fertile plots.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                   

A Broken Chorus Broken Twice

 

                        A Song;

                        The singers' tunes are slightly off, and wrong,

           

                        So, Leader splits the group to get it right.

                        Now one-Group sings a different phrase,

                        And One-group stays, but sings a different melody.

 

                        So, Leader splits the groups again;

                        Four wrong songs sing simultaneously.

 

                        The broken chorus, broken twice, once spoken,

                        Never sounds as nice as one unbroken.

 

 

 

 

                                       A Place

 

 

                        I found a place to think alone,

                                    all by myself, or with someone special.

                        A place as grand as swans when grown

                                    as quiet as the sun and moon has shone,

                        But nowhere special.

 

                        I found a place to see inside 

                                    myself, or share the scene with someone special.

                        A place where happiness can't hide

                                    and miracles have multiplied,

                        But nowhere special.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                   Ribbon

 

 

        I need a piece of ribbon, so

            I'll spray a mist into the air,

        And when the rainbow shows I'll pluck

           The colors that are there.

 

        Red, no, too fiery for summer.

        Orange, no, too fallish.

        Yellow is springy and spring is a memory.

        Green, a tad too earthy.

        Blue is pretty, but cold.

        Indigo, dark and dreary.

        Violet is daring and bold.

 

        Back to yellow - a memory's nice -

        And to blue - a favorite of all -

        And to violet - different, somewhat unnatural,

               and silky, and soft.

 

        Took out an ice cube and wiped the mirage

           'til the misty violet ribbon became solid,

        And strung it from tree to tree in my yard,

        And everyone said it was a nice renovation.

 

 

 

 

                                                                    Sun

 

                                                                        I drew a picture of a scene -

                                                                        Colored blue for sky, green for fields,

                                                                        Yellow for the sun. 

                                                                        And I was done, but,

                                                                        The sun was really more orange,

                                                                        Or red, I couldn't tell,

                                                                        It was blinding, bright.

                                                                        So, despite my work, I threw my art away

                                                                        And drew the scene again -

                                                                        Colored blue for sky, green for fields,

                                                                        And left the sun white.

                                                                        And this was right.

    

 

          No Joy in the Field

 

 

        When there's

        No water in the garden

        The hotter plants harden

        While cooler plants lie in the shade.

 

        The hotter plants ask'em,

        "Could you shoot us a quart?"

        The cooler plants tell'em,

        "Our roots are too short."

 

 

        When there's

        A breeze in the glade

        A plant in the shade

        Sees the plants in the sun having fun.

 

        The cooler plants ask'em,

        "Could you hug us for heat?"

       The hotter plants tell'em,

        "Our leaves cannot meet."

 

 

        Then there's

        No joy in the field

        The plants cannot yield -

        With some sun, the shade plants could get hotter ones healed.

        But they froze and they died,

        And the sun plants all dried.

        While the gardner sat sipping, cooly inside.

 

 

 

                                                          The Antagonists

 

 

                                                                        One man sold them deadly drugs,

                                                                        Another sold them guns.

                                                                        The ones with drugs shot up their arms;

                                                                        The ones with arms shot wifes and sons.

                                                                        The two rich men then used their funds

                                                                        On drugs or guns - 'til they had tons -

                                                                        And died at once.

 

 

 

 

                                       What Martyrs Know

 

 

                                    I sought to draw a martyr (saint),

                                                but, martyrs ain't a bit

                                                for art, or paint.

                                    So, this one chose to blow the pose,

                                                and as he rose to go

                                                his halos glowed from nose to toes.

                                    I got a shot on film I brought;

                                                he smiled while I caught

                                                the sight I sought.

                                    Which goes to show what martyrs know -

                                                that photos ain't

                                                as slow as paint.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                       Concontrol

 

 

                                    Behold, a cavebound artifact,

                                    An arm and inch away.

                                    The extra stretch - and half as far -

                                    The wind begins to play.

                                    It rolls one half-inch to a rut

                                    And he can sense the clay.

                                    But, there it stays, and all he sees

                                    Are sides ill-chosen by the breeze.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                       Baby

 

 

       The German Prime Minister was granted exemption,

       Having finished his speech at the meeting of nations.

       Though not big on patience, they made an exception -

       It seems that they deemed his excuse was no ruse.

 

       See, his wife was in labor with child, and his

       Neighbor dialed strangers who came running

       To aid her, so he wanted to be there in order to see where

       The cares of the nurses were while they prepared her.

 

       Not a single precaution was taken too lightly,

       And rightly - though this happened nightly. 

       The Frau held his hand tightly; her palms were slippery;

       His heart became shiverry; he prayed that delivery

       Would not be delayed.  "Oh, hurry," he said.

 

       As minutes bore hours, the baby, now hers, leaped once in the

       Womb and wound out to the towels,

       Was cut from her body and rushed to the showers. 

 

       Then they let his mom hold him, while his daddy just told him,

       How proud of his Frau he had been and

       How bold and how golden he looked

       In the light of his Mom's shining eyes.

 

       So, he returned to the meeting with a mile-long smile,

       Said, "Hi, all," and sat in a chair by the wall.

       Every dad in the room remembered their kids,

       How they looked in their cribs, and the food on their bibs,

       And the things that they did as they got to be grown,

       And the bachelors rushed out to have kids of their own.

 

 

 

 

 

 

   Basement

 

 

                         No   window

                    Thus no   wind blow

                               In  tho'

                               In  do'

                            Wind go

                               In.

 

                              And  ceiling

                    Is a flooring

          So

          No   raining   pouring   keeps     my

                         snoring   sleeping - dreaming

          Lambs     are            leaping

          Lying    lions roaring,             screaming.

 

                    And when the   morning 

                                    Orb

                          Starts   soaring 

                                     O'er 

                    I'm  knowing             not

                    It's            gorgeous

                                    Corset

                                   Glory

                         Showing -            so, I

                                   Snore          'til

                                   Four

                                     Or

                                    More.

                                              Oh, it's

                                              No matter.

 

                                    Morning's

                                    Boring.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 Autobiography

 

 

 

 

 

                                               

 

 

 

 

 

                                            Hardship

 

                                    Hardship made me diamond hard.

                                    It made me so resilient.

                                    It taught me lessons, made me smart.

                                    In time, I should be brilliant!.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                             Patterned: After a Fashion

 

 

                                    Hilsboro's close to where I live.

                                    It had a lot of love to give,

                                    But, luckily I left in time.

                                    A dressed-up place with song and rhyme,

                                    A town for clown and pantomime.

 

                                    A Big Top town where all's an act,

                                    And, I performed with practiced tact.

                                    A brilliant wit, a fiery pun,

                                    But, verbal tricks are not as fun

                                    When they are done by everyone.

 

                                    And this big city's sometimes dull,

                                    But, people call me colorful,

                                    A raging bull in red and white, 

                                    A costume worn with precious pride,

                                    Kept in my head and not outside.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                  Perspective

 

        I occupy a state of mind

              That's different, I often find.

        When one sees gray and disarray,

             I turn my head and start to play;

        When one sees hope in morning mist,

             I clench my teeth and ball my fist.

        It's though I know that every blow

             Will come

             And go.

 

 

 

 

 

 

          HwCnIExprssMyEmtns2U?

 

            How.   can.   I.   ex.  press

            my-emotions-to-you? 

            Do I know how

            To  show how

            I feel?  No.

 

            Can.   I.   lay.   it.  down

            So-your-heart-can-see-it?

            Can I think out

            How to ink out

            A plan? No.

 

            My.  whole.  life.  is.   a

            tune-for-deafened-ears       a

            masterpiece-in-darkness     a

            play-behind-the-curtain     and

            there's-nothing-I-can-do-about-it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                                  No Hypo Emo

 

                                                            I'd like to write of happiness,

                                                            But, now I'm not too happy.

                                                            I'd write of gloom or sadness,

                                                            But, I'm neither sad nor gloomy.

                                                            I'm not frightened, angry,

                                                            Enlightened, nor fervent,

                                                            And not in transit

                                                            From one to another.

 

                                                            I'm only bored, to tell the truth,

                                                            And will not write of depth of feeling,

                                                            'Cause hypocrites are all too common,

                                                            And those who lie are soon discovered.

 

 

                                             A Friend

 

                                    Take me home...

                                                            I don't belong here.

                                    Your friends are not mine and they

                                           Gossip about their own friends

                                                 Who are also not mine.

 

                                    One fool said - a friend of yours is

                                    A friend of mine - not true.

                                    A friend is someone you can count upon

                                    To make the gray

                                    Seem crystal clear.

 

                                    You are my friend, you see I'm gray,

                                    I don't belong here

                                                            ... Take me home.

 

                                    You did not take me home, so

                                                            I've made a new friend.

                                    It's the bottle and it won't talk back. 

                                    But, it does dispel the gray and for that

                                                            I am grateful and deem it

                                    A true friend.

 

                                    For you saw gray when you saw me here,

                                                And you turned me black when you

                                                            Turned me back.

                                                You knew I did not belong here,

                                                            And you did not take me home.

 

 

                                    I am not an insensitive, irrational man,

                                    Not anti-social, quite gregarious...

                                    Let me meet your fine, fine friends,

                                    Let me gossip with them about you,

                                                And then we'll see who

                                                            Will be

                                                The first to turn you gray...

                                                            And I will turn you black,

                                                And you can meet my friend

 

                                                While you wait for me

                                                            To take you home.

     The Mask I Hide Behind

 

 

         The Mask I Hide Behind

         Lacks vision holes

         And I am blind.

         To mask me, though,

         I cannot let

         My seers show.

         For in a pupil

         Lies a mind

         That voids the mask

         I hide behind.

  

         The Mask I Hide Behind

         Lacks color tones

         Of any kind.

         To mask me, though,

         I cannot let

         My preference show.

         For in a tint,

         Intent you find

         That voids the mask

         I hide behind.

 

         I am myself

        And unconfined

        Behind

        The Mask I Hide Behind.

 

 

 

                                               They Do Not Notice Me

 

                                                            I watch the people come and go,

                                                            And they don't know I watch them, so

                                                            They do not notice me.

                                                            I see the silly moves they make,

                                                            Wrong turns they take, and each mistake...

                                                            They do not notice me.

                                                            I'm aware I stare at every err,

                                                            Yet, no thought to stop because they're there.

                                                            I recognize I don't think twice

                                                            To criticize with darting eyes

                                                            Because they do not notice me.

     

  I'm Just This Far From being a Threat

 

 

            I've got words in my head

            And thoughts for expressing,

            A brain for my reasoning,

            A mouth for confessing,

            Complex emotions that

            I've been suppressing,

            And brilliant poetics

            To keep people guessing,

            But, as I lie alone

            In my room, in my bed,

            These thoughts bruise themselves

            Banging inside my head,

            'Cause nobody's here

            To hear what I've said.

            I'm a person away

            From being a threat.    

 

 

                                          Solution

 

 

                                                            I want my hand to touch the moon -

                                                            To hold an object rarely held,

                                                            But feet are bound to Earthen ground

                                                            And cannot be repelled.

 

                                                            If I had hands upon the moon,

                                                            I'd want my feet to touch the earth -

                                                            Familiar friend I have depended

                                                            On since time of birth.

 

                                                            Maybe if I pray a little,

                                                            Learn some more, and grow a lot,

                                                            I'd have hands curled 'round moon and world,

                                                            Find feet another spot.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                             Mother Two Is One

 

 

                                    My mother one I never knew

                                    And sometimes wished she'd seen me do

                                    Things which make a mother glow.

                                    Mother one I'll never know.

 

                                    My mother two is really one.

                                    She's seen the things that I have done

                                    And she's my fondest memory -

                                    The way reflections ought to be.

 

                                    My mothers three and four today

                                    Take care of me when I'm away

                                    From mother two who's really one

                                    Who's mother to a grateful son.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Epilogue

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

             What the Critics Say

 

 

        I, the artist, say:

              Why don't you have a look?

 

        You, the critic, say:

              What a Wonderful Thing you have Done! 

              With the red Bloody Field and the sad blue Sun....

              The Bravery!  The Technique!  The Emotion!

 

        I, the artist, say:

              it was done by my son 

              who is only three

              in six quick minutes

              with only two crayons

              and it's supposed to be me.