amazed by a shower of rain,
it takes more info
than the capture of sound,
to get ya to realize,
when it hits a tin roof,
it simply implies
what is felt
from those windless days and nights
thinking of her
in modern paradise
relaxing properties
and surrounded in essence
of her strawberry candle like eyes
that always left a fragrance
of her in my soul.
it doesn’t take long,
to really know that
she’s been incredibly missed
in this highway lonesome cowboy.
it’s tough
when ya can’t just get enough
of seein her face –
cause suffocating
while she needs to breathe,
ought to tell ya,
it seems like an entire lifetime
without her strings of attachment
in her centerfold of wine
for a little bit of a country town insider
to feel her comfort,
so a lonely bird can bloom.

i take a trip
to the ruins
of the talmudic era
in search of prescriptions
in ultimate pulls of positive
ancient symbolic meanings.
it is here
i find the hamsa
(semitic root meaning five)
where i feel this incredible
on fire kind of passionate,
wanna throw my hands
in the air with pumped fists.
it is the creator’s protective hand.
these fingers of significant digits
are stroking the keys
in a subtle way
referenced to the sign of pisces
with an aquamarine eye
in metaphors with all the great fish
to thwart the evil eye.
these hands
are like double agents.
you can’t possibly imagine
how one can find
happiness, wealth and power
in a silent retreat to make me stand tall.

purple hearts
don’t have to be
those just in the combat fields.
they can be achieved
in the same manner
as to taking up causes
or bringing awareness
to issues that others
never seemed to address or identify.

we are different,
because we focus
in the colors,
as if distilled
from the flowering tops
of organic wild lavender
growing in the fields of france.
that purple haze gaze
with a little jimi hendrix phrase
emboldens healthy lives in general.
it’s a profound effect
all in the wildly crafted
poorly drained soils
that show a ruggedness
coming out of mountainous regions
with that french sway
on a porch swing-set dreaming
in a classic romantic
wanna feel exuberant experience.

To all of my followers:

I have a few wordpress followers that i’m connected to facebook as well. They have a pretty good idea as to all I have been through. For the past few months I have been writing lights out so that I can breathe. Writing helps me breathe, but yet there is some suffocating that I’m still absorbing.

My 35th class year reunion is on August 16th. A classmate of mine who is the salutatorian has paid my way and a guest of my choice. As I was growing up, I grew fond of words but had a knack to read really fast due to my highly sensitive characteristics. I was deemed that I had comprehension deficiencies but they had never discovered I was proficient with analogies. I went underneath the radar but a teacher in my senior year took notice as I had done my term paper on religious cults. She never said that you need to lean on this, and without any reinforcements behind me to bolster my use with words, I was a little lightbulb just burning solely alone. I simply went through life with various chips on my shoulders. I told him that I was a lot brighter than what I ever got credit for.

I spent most of my years growing up trying to fit into things without a great deal of success. I was socially underdeveloped. I suppose with that obstacle, and combined with not being able to read who was real and who was phony caused many problems in the adult world.

Some time ago I started to work twitter and found out how to use it by using high impact words to draw them to my writing or even creating some homespun quotes. I’ve got a nice following of close to 670 now and all of them hard earned without spending to buy followers. I’ve picked up three actresses in that contribute in the horror genre and other areas as well. Certainly, I have to say, it’s a good feel to say the least.

Attraction to the word can bring a little luck. This will be a very positive experience for me.

sexual harassment
from either side of the aisle
is not cool whatsoever.
manipulating another,
needs to be cut
straight out of the throat.
it’s a weakness
that provokes visual images
long after the words
have been unleashed.
think about the table:
four legs and a top.
that table carries feeling,
especially when you rub
your hand across it.
if it’s made of wood,
it’s smooth with a lustre.
life is like that too,
and when that table
gets all gouged up,
and there is so much weight on it,
that mofo is going crumble
under all that stress.
someone who routinely abuses
with malicious intentions,
whether physically or mentally
has built up a stockpile
of tactics
to intimidate and humiliate
and generate horror
in the life of another
for the sole purpose
to have utter control,
whether it be personal relationships,
the workplace, or any other kind thing one can think of.
however the worst type,
is the use of third parties,
and that means manipulating them
to work over another.
it’s been said
that one should never
get under the skin of a writer,
because eventually it will be a task
of redemption with survival
completely to open eyes in a brand new way.
quiet people are reserved types
and they will think so much
until an arsenal
is ready to fire back
in rebuttal of such dirty tricks
thrown against them.
fighting for causes matter,
and that’s what us poet’s are for!
feel their spirit,
and be lucky they are your voices.

sometimes,
ya have to take
a good storm
to all the countries.
it’s a howl
in the swirlin winds.
this punk guy
in his 50’s
sittin in a fold out camper’s chair
along the shores
of lake erie,
is a must believer,
that rebels
are developers,
workin it,
in like a big dipper
hangin out in the sky
in a blue dipper constellation.

nevertheless –
feet plunged in the sand,
feelin all to romantic
runnin throughout my body,
driftin in a dream
where all the angels,
just so happen
to leave their tailgate smiles.
that’s what poetry does !

this American,
livin life in a third world plight,
dusts off the religions,
and writes his verse
for scholarly interpreters
that dig deep down roots
on all the continents,
for an all into gettin into spirituality.
it’s a contributory
flow of life
to embrace enlightenment,
within and out
from sacred traces
without reservations,
or barrier constraints.

free spirits matter.
visualize my leaves of life
taking breaths in the air.
that’s what a poet does !

her terms of endearment,
especially from a well crafted
in all the shares
leavin links to untie
her inner laces
in a smooth
not afraid visibility xoxo
so creamy like a wine sauce,
in a not just made overnight
to be like favorited
in her social media apparatus
and thinkin breakfast
at tiffany’s
is like a daily devotion.
this pennsylvanian
showin her some homespun
playboy grooves in the big game
with my all weathered commonwealth
double decker
showing inside outside depth,
has all to do with
her gorgeous miss september
in the fall colors of the trees
dancin in the wind of her breeze.
sometimes it takes
a long time to work out past edits
in a cyber droppin it all over the place.
why can’t a guy
think like she makes it worth
being a poet
in a hot rod deluxe –
get her in my wheel of life?

when i was a kid
i absolutely hated
pullin brush in the vineyards.
all dressed in layers
where the wind
would be bitin
against the skin,
and knee deep in snow.
didn’t find that to be romantic
one least bit.
and here i am
livin in north east pa –
a grape belt in the region.
that’s my karate belt –
clever isn’t it?
as an adult,
there wasn’t anything romantic
about any of that either.
sometimes it is better
just to let all that brush
run wild within ya over the years.
it’s a lot of work
pullin all that stuff out –
it’s a flat out feel generator,
thinkin good wholesome women know a thing or two
about the stress press in romantic flair
off the vines of life.

METAPHORS

gotta futtin love them these days !!!

i picked up my daughter.
she was nine that day.
we went to the millcreek mall.
i bought her a CD walk-man
and an outfit.
then we left.
but on our way to drop her off,
she said, “Why are the clouds dirty?”
i said, “i really didn’t know,
but maybe it was God washing his hands.”
it’s eerily for sure,
but it’s folklore.
i was only her father,
so unimportant as it may be
in the womb of her mother’s eyes.
who said that one day
that a bunch of honey bees
wouldn’t come around
in their own creative element
to administer first aid treatment?