Every grain of sand is consuming.
Winter after winter culls
Our offerings, and our reserves,
Overripened, go unpicked.
We only rehearse our songs to Silence,
But if we were heard, and approval
Laid on us, would we know what to do?
If it is a genius that alights
On me, how do I form a technique
From it; and where beyond the sand
Can one find a base to build?
The words and directions of others can't
Reveal memories' inner world;
But to be there with them and to share
In the common dream, like beholding a peacock,
The world beyond yet partaken in,
If you could just accept and exalt it.
Even the unpicked fruit gets eaten.
Author: Nick
This Living
I won't refuse it, this living of mine.
Frustration glares at me like a sign:
My era is ending; I'm losing my way.
That's been true, but why decay
When once I bloomed upon this vine?
You know, once I would decline
Handshakes out of terror. How fine
it is now! Kenny drops by and says hey;
I won't refuse it.
I thought I had to change my line.
I thought I had to leave behind
This chapter. Before I never ate,
Now I do with laughter. Why say
That now this humble life's supine;
I won't refuse it.
Whatever
Whatever can be a beautiful term,
Not just a juvenile linguistic squirm.
The word exists in many forms.
Despite it earning my partner's scorn,
Sometimes the word helps me stand firm.
On occasions when rage in traffic worms
Its way inside, extinguish the burn.
Even if they honk the horn,
Whatever.
When my lover fears I'd spurn
Him for something shallow as a derm;
When he asks me so forlorn
What I'd do to help but a thorn
Of his dreams come true; I reaffirm:
Whatever.
That’s How it Goes
That's how it goes when you're not like the rest:
They lay down the rules that suit them the best,
But some of us play from a different book.
I don't think I'm above it, I'm no crook;
An addict perhaps, if I have transgressed.
Those of our kind, our static's possessed
By demons of sickness set to divest
Us of joie de vivre by their seething hooks.
That's how it goes.
How can one live at the system's behest?
None can be civil with spirits oppressed
By an inner void which hurts just to look
At, let alone have the courage to brook.
I have nothing to add nor to contest,
That's how it goes.
The Superstar
The superstar of a single block
Is irrelevant on another's clock.
He's made his crowd scream and shout,
But anywhere else he has no clout.
If he's a headcase he's in for a shock.
Once he leaves he's a line of chalk.
Who'll care if someone should hock
Any blasphemy about
The superstar?
At first it'll all seem inside-out,
But is there ever really a doubt
That after he's gone life continues to walk
Ahead, away from yesterday's talk?
That corner will still exist without
The superstar.
I am the corpse no one expects
I am the corpse no one expects,
One of those whose demeanor affects
The pleasantries of happiness;
But underneath there snaps duress,
Whip-like in vicious dialects.
A melancholy which vivisects
The soul. Simple becomes complex
For the wretch whom no one would guess
I am.
Misery in stasis directs
Toward a grave; emotion collects
In a gutter where I compress
From our dimension down one less.
As one of secret derelicts,
I am.
Roadkill
Death on the roadside
unexplainable
byproduct of killing life
who could ever know whom
seeking identification
or if the skull isn't smashed to bits
dental records
what if they had no teeth
witnesses what do they know
not for inculpation
no one knows their name
unknown Corpse
Roadkill
biohazard crew comes by
disposes of what lived yesterday
if only one person sees it
no one does
what if they're not human
not even john doe
deposited on the shoulder
Carrion for the sun to bleach
what if they were my friend
what if only i know their name
then no one knows
i was never interviewed
passing on
so unceremoniously
my killing life demanded my time
i didn't even stop
mangled skeleton
with its wings still stretched
beautifully hideously macabrely
fly away from this cursed world
can one even offer prayers
in this new mode of living Death
living and thereby murdering
sometimes quickly often slowly
i pray the friends i no longer see
are not and will not be
this unlucky one
what good is that to him
when each of us goes out
for groceries or work or just for pleasure
on our final road trip to Death
every one will be our collective fault.
Death
I have died many times before.
I have knocked upon Death's door.
All I heard was the echo knock,
Knock, knocking until nothing
Responded when I sadly awoke.
Needs
I need the capability
to pay the way
through time and obligation toward happiness.
Power of movement's what I need,
flux's freedom,
the faculties of change and of stability.
Fame and fortune are not required,
only some wealth
for the bills, walls for the nights, and food for our friends.
Just enough to afford my car
and gasoline
to go from Spring Hill back to my soul in Tampa.
Are all of these things possible:
to help construct
machines and monuments from some semantic lens?
Can I fund the signal of dreams,
can I foster
candid portraits that understand their own façades?
And when I meet with frustration,
what is the strength
that will be hammered out of my emotions' storm?
Will I withstand the melting down
in raging ore,
will I be annealed or will I crack in the cold?
I'm climbing up the diving bell
beneath the thought
of what warrants efforts buried in silent time.
Never expecting to survive,
will I write these
words enough times a poem can be discovered?
Franklin
It finally happened, and I
Have felt the most singular joy:
Franklin, the largest of our ducks,
And I think the father of most of them,
Ate blueberries out of my hand!
Our younger ducks are still skittish,
So I simply toss them berries;
But Franklin's courageous and comfortable,
He doesn't fear the touch of this ape.
And if ever I feared the bill of a duck,
Truth reveals that completely baseless.
Franklin is sweet beyond compare:
It feels like rounded tongs when he nibbles,
Gently tickling my palms for fruit.
And not just that, though that's sublime,
He even let me pet his breast!
He held himself with the dignity
Of a wild animal, yet serenely,
Familiarly he accepted my touch.
With the backs of my first two fingers
I softly stroked his dappled breast.
Franklin gives his mouth a lick
And holds his head up while I pet him.
I look into his golden eyes,
At his leathery, red face,
The equal streaks of black and white
Which course atop his fluffy head
And down his neck; he's so plush!
I thank him for allowing me
To feel the soft touch of his down.
He chuffs as if to thank me in turn
For the blueberries. He is content.
What an incredible creature I'm blessed
To have as a neighbor purely by chance,
This muscovy duck Franklin!
A place for my poems 