Divested

He once spent much time on perfection

to fulfill everyone's predilection. 

With much praise they toyed;

yet his heart they'd avoid,

his life shorn of love's protection.

Heart's String

My heart drags behind me

like an old tin can

attached to a string

that I hold in my hand.  

My string and I

(I'm not ashamed to say)

hold fast to each other

when love goes away. 

Cool Blue

The world is gone,
gone to its loves and its labors
under a placid blue sky,
and I wait . . .
wait for a stirring,
a new bud,
a warm breeze,
a sign of recognition . . .
for the sun is
chilly today.

Wild Sorrow

Wild sorrow, exile,

you grow in the dense thicket

ripe with thorns. 

Prickly leaves are yours,

hanging heavy with

all the loves ever loved alone,

all the words never uttered,

pangs of longing

useless to the busy world,

a world unsuspecting

of the million secret deaths within

caused by wild sorrow

and its piercing, untamed fruit,

the thorn.

Muffled

All appears well,

so they assume you're asleep

'neath the heartiest laughter

and many a treat;

but meanwhile, the sentry
in you stays alert

to dissonance under

facades inert . . .

conflicts seething,

undetected,

liable to surface

when least expected.

They break their ties
as they go along

with the smiles and good cheer

of a lighthearted song.

This is their scream:
Anguish's reversed tone
as it writhes in distress,
feeling madly alone.

Not Much, Really

What he wanted -- it wasn't much, really.

He was lonely, aching to feel welcome . . .

somewhere.

He just wanted a little conversation,

a "hello," a "thinking of you," a "how are ya'?"

The people down the road, though,

they were real busy.

Lots of yard work to do, some haulin', some liftin' --

"Gotta' work, gotta' work hard, pressure -- ya' know? --

gotta' make things comfortable."

Sure, he thought.  Sure.  They gotta' get comfortable.

"Comfortable" -- real important thing. 

He wasn't comfortable.

No matter what angle he adjusted his chair on that porch,

no one came.

They'd see him, ya' know?  They'd wave.

He'd wave back.

Charity really fills a body up inside,

don't it?

Look Alive

Left to rot in a deserted garden

of walls and dank silence,

some benumbed part of spirit

still languishes there,

unable to rise,

too weak,

too deathly tired

even to look up.
Onlookers,
never noticing the void,
smile and wave.