sometimes poems
can be like slivers
in the hand,
where it hurts enough
and becomes necessary
to focus on the pain
until it all comes out
before we feel any better.
sometimes poems
can be like slivers
in the hand,
where it hurts enough
and becomes necessary
to focus on the pain
until it all comes out
before we feel any better.
your voice gives you away man.
i told you
it had to GO DOWN this way.
you know what happens
when the boss has a SCORE to settle?
he’ll get his crew if he finds out
you have turned on him.
i’m telling you that nothing gets past him.
you are like family,
but i can’t save your tail,
so, don’t hold back
what he wants to know.
i want you to meet me at my place
in two hours, or nothing will get accomplished.
later… sat down face to face
and this became the agreement
when the boss said, “when you listen thoroughly -then write.”
that saved us both !!
i went to the truck stop
just off of interstate 90
in harborcreek pa.
i walked in like a vagrant –
single life will do that.
i went and sat up
at the truckers counter –
kinda like fitting in
away from family oriented spots.
ordered an orange juice,
omlette with toast,
and a short stack of pancakes.
after a short time …
i sat there eating,
and thought about the leaves
i had gathered in many large contractors bags
in a steady rain
brought about by the effects of the hurricane
a few hours earlier.
if this appears gloomy,
don’t tell anyone.
this place of imprisonment
is merely a silent reciever.
dreams are ambitious, and yet,
i am a beggar in my own dungeon.
that small space – i call my world.
an ordinary man reaches out
as if written to hamlet
on this old desk.
the lights flicker …
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