The Day After

we crowded round the party table
with neon halos in our hair
our bare feet on the kitchen floor
bread and wine to share
you said that one of us was bad
and in the morning we would see
how careless words cause chaos
our futures not so free

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another poem

there’s a patch of sunlight on the hill
it’s not too far away
the white blades on the new windmill
are slicing up my day

every minute they go round and round
morning, noon and night
I stand in hope and wait spellbound
for a future shiny bright

a poem

the sea was romaine lettuce green
the sky a blueberry blue
the clouds were patterned coffee cream
the boats a lemony hue

the day was bleeding beetroot red
the night black liquorice glue
the moon was buttery brioche bread
the dough of mornings new

Woke up

Woke up, it was a Zappa morning
and the first thing that I heard
was a song inside my windows
from the mofo of inventions
he came a-steaming up like freight train bells
and sang these words to me

Oh, that’s alright folks
We’ll not touch this daylight dial
And we’ll curse it ’till the night comes

Woke up, it was a Mitchell morning
and the first thing that I heard
was the call through yellow curtains
of a taxi cab in the parking lot
that came a-stealing up like the molten sun
to take these words from me

Oh, look out, look out
I’m not the only soul to ever be
Accused of hit and run every second of the day

Woke up, it was a Hendrix morning
and the first thing that I heard
was the dreary sound of a sweeping broom
as it cleared the weeping cobwebs
that fell upon this daybreak like a broken dream
that spilt this cry from within me

Oh won’t you stay
Oh won’t you stay
now the petals of my night time words
have forever blown away

 

(with a little help from my friends:
Joni Mitchell, Frank Zappa and Jimi Hendrix)

 

a bloodbath of dreams

waking from a bloodbath of dreams
a machete stains red across the sky
how the mind does nightly wander
in silent screams and heinous crimes
the morning comes in pools of grief
a relief to be a survivor once more
but oh at what price we turn the leaf
of life’s weary pages we adore

Frosty Morning

white sparkling sugar sprinkles
like frosty breakfast cereals
or a sticky pastry treat

coat these hardy little leaves
like polar explorers’ beards
or a husky’s tiny whiskers

they wait for the sun to rise
like breaths of warm air
or a welcoming kiss

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prisoners

the sun struggles to surmount
the ridge across the valley
where pylons quick step
in double lined formations
bringing their electricity
to help power the morning
as I watch through the bars
of my writing room blinds
a contented prisoner
to the spectacle

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