broken tree in dream

   If through shame
    the  voice of poems does leave me
   I lay in my bed and lament how
     my loving you can never be enough
        to satisfy the inadequacies of being
   such a retched failure in the eyes of men
    and of God.

  I go deep within it, that slumber
     of inaction where
 shame beats you at the face with it's broken tree dreams
    of failue, things that could be
    if I don't smarten the F_k up right away . . . let's go!

  So I dirve to the sky where the wind meets the stone
  I fall towards the Heavens with the rain all alone
    I rise in my mind as I fall in my deeds
   but halt just above the entangling weeds.

  And when I awake
     that tree, that broken tree
  from the dream
    is not broken.
  I am not fallen
     any farther than I needed to in order to land with my feet
                 on the ground

  I would write a whole world for you,
   All good things that we would be chattering about
    up all night and off into the dawn!

  There were dreams in my mind that I'd put to the side
    like things you leave inside against the
     walls of a barn
   or appliences that you collect
       in a rill down from the yard
    the junkie stopped by and gave you his card.

  "I can have those things out of here
      'fore the end of the day
   you can go off and harvast your hay
      I'll even throw a hand ful of cash your way."

  These things I want,
     those things you take.
   Take the old washer
     leave the old rake.
    copper collected
       is starting to green
     cash in hand
        will friendly the mean.

  There was what she said,
  Then what she said she said to Fred
     and then what she said everyone else sad, 
  and that noooo body understannndddds her.
   She was just so tooottalllly gone.

    And he wasn't sad that she'd left
    is what he told everyone but it
        was a lie.

  She was, in fact, the light of his life
     I could tell by the way that he
       looked at her as she walked over to him.

  There was light.
   There wre the shadows made by the light.
   And there was the dancing of the shadows
    which cooresponded to the dnacing of the flame.

  If I can only see the shadows,
     like all that I do is just me
       crying out from a dream
    'boo hoo hoo.  I want to wake up
       and be in your arms.'

  Not realizing that I never did leave them,
  that this is, in fact, a dream.
  I am deep within it, I call it this life and,
    in fact, I am firmly
      in your arms.

   I just can't wake up to realize it fully.

  So in the poet's delusions he constructs this
   poem that ihijnts of fantasy dreams of
     other folks being true, you are in fact, already in your true lover's arms.

  You are in fact already within your true lover's arms,
  and this whole life is but the dream that you must live through forever
   to get to the other side of anaylation
              and make good on the promises
     that we have all heard are true.

  So rise up and face your shame, those bad choices that you made
   face the coming storm, it will not mow you down.  
   And at night you might hear a tree or two 
     crack in two
   back in view
      black and blue
   
   This dream time that comes down the pike of hopeful days
   that carry forth the poets cadence, he sings its praise,
  draft poemss doen't have to be true
     rewrite it if you need to
  poet's voice is true.

  Goethe says the poet knows to say the words with rhyme
  The poet knows the sylables that have the proper time.
  A poet jots, a poet jests, a poet rants with glee
   dance along a cliff walk far above the sea.

  How did this start?  I've name-dropped dead poets,
   what farther literary cleche could there ever be?

   It was, in fact, a lie what she'd told him.
   He knew it right away but kept up the rouse that he trusted her.
  All the way back to the house in the car he continued with his passive aggressiion.
  And that night, just to be mean, he let the back door close and lock
     just as she stepped out
     into the Winter chill.

  So out of the house at 3AM she'd gone for a cigarette.
  And now that she smoked them raw was her final frozen regret.

   Even though she was naked she waalked the half mile to next farmhouse
     and made it inside and they called her an ambulence and she went to the hospital for hypothermia.

  He claimed he'd taken a cold pill
      with a potent sleeping aide
  and that he didn't here her
      banging on the house.

  Pumpkin flood
    when the river rises
  because farmer didn't get there
    to get his gords.

Dark poems from the edge of reality

  He was there, he
     could here it brewing
  out there
  down in the far below
     of the lower down ledges,
   out beyond the place where the sand showers down upon the lesser down places
    and unfortunates,
  out where morality ends and only
      natural law is in sway,
   what is right is right
    what is wrong you know is wrong
  and vengence is
       The Lords.

  That is how he felt about it.  
    He was there in the chlling wind.
   it was out at the far beyond,
  where whirlwinds are the tamest winds
    and you can almost hear the sound of it
    calling you
    for locked within that screaming wind
   the voices from the long ago
       the longing ago . . . of fervent calls 
   to make good the promise of the long ago.

   Under the wings of eagles do sit the meek protected
    feeling broken and ashamed to be so fallen down.

   If you have fallen
    from your parents nest
  will  your parents not search for you
  and then carry you 'neath thar wings.

The poet can not resist the urge
   to blog
      "'neath and noth thar wings and nice"

   Can't this poet stop and say
   what yoou gonna do today
  I have heard what blind men say
     they always say to listen.

  Do you hear the sound of calls
    of swarming birds about the falls?
  Those folks converge this year right here
   some years forward, some years rear.

  Poetry is a task most bland
     if the poet's readers don't understand.

   This is a blog
  it is not high art.


   Art had a blog.  Hi, Art Blog.
  
  Good morning art blog!!
 Gosh I had a night!  It lasted until dawn.
  I heard cats howling.
Then the scream a kid off in the woods
 hollar-talk of a drunk kid.

  See the blue lights.
  Officer off looking for the kids in the woods.
  See the kid, all drunk,
  leaning up against a neighbors garage.

   He's puking.

  Hey, you gonna be alright?
   What you doing standing in the light?
  Cop will see you, that's for sure.
   To call your parents I can't endure.

  Are you well?
    or are you sick?
  If you throw up
    it may help a bit.

  The kid looks at me
   calls me a creep
      tells me to 
   leave him sleep.

Holler-talking at the edge of the sky

  Them guys is hollar-talking
   out there to night, 
 sounds real heated 
    like they might fight.