studied thought

how many days
pass before
one day you wake up
and realize everything
you have been
led to believe as truth
has been told to give you
a sense of security
and pride but is based
solely on the success
of a few selected
at the expense of all the rest
how many days
before will open eyes
and realize the corrections
that need to be made
to our idea of pride and
what we believe to be truth
how many days
will I sit at this table
putting thoughts down
only repetitive
to stress the importance
of studied thought…

repetitive

out on the back porch
scribbling away with something
to say without getting
repetitive monotone
like a sedative
puts your head out sideways
lying on the floor
like a dog motionless
an already fallen log
with grass growing all around
fell without a sound
still want to tell a story
unload the brain how long
will it take until I too fall
and will I break
as down I go
buried cold in the snow
of summer must be rain
something wet will
distort the brain
so words come out
a slight bit twisted
and when I threw the pitch
went by quick you missed it...

not far behind

trying not to get ahead
of myself or left behind
forget the words
then hit rewind unwind
search and find until something
comes to mind what we've been told
no mater how old we have got to doubt
to get all the truth out
from up in the head no matter
what's said here
the same won't get ahead
but not far behind...

even if only one

even if only one a day
turns to night
faster than he could
imagine clarity
coming through thought
extended for hours
without stoppage
or even a stalling point
even if only one page at a time
writing the story
of the history of his life
unfolding quietly
and even if no one notices
the changes and he makes them
come about at least once a day
if he can commit only a little
time daily to the mind circus...

back again

back again
two thoughts right next
to each other
making noise
not as much confidence
in all these words
give me confidence
in two thoughts simultaneously
occurring on days when nothing
makes sense even when
standing upside down
wonder what he carries
in the bag my guess
is not a gun
but what do I know
back again for another
cup of coffee and
a little conversation
keeping the bag on the table
maybe in case anyone
questions his motives
or the direction headed
even if no one knows
who he is or what he does
or where he goes
what time is it now...

take a look

take a look
through the blinds
to see the sky
even if it is gray been doing it
so long
seems as if it may never stop
even to pause
for a moment
take a look over the hills
and into the sunset
behind the gray
of course...

someone should be

sometimes I feel I am
doing this just to fill
books with thoughts
over all these years
doing it daily
the sun is dancing
with the rain today
sometimes I feel I am
alone
doing this and no one
will notice
this today and maybe
that's why
sometimes I feel I am
doing this
because
someone should be...

something more than

sifting through
mind of madness
writing is thought's way
taking verbal pictures
writing is drawing
sketches of these
bursts of light
shining from within
the mind's eye
but without reading
writing seems pointless
who is the audience
for all this random thought
is there one at all
or is it a creation
of this mad scattered mind
bent on putting words in front of eyes
to read and think
what's the point of life
if we don't think
can't always let someone else
think for you
choices need to be made
for yourself
writing is a way to turn
a rainy Monday morning
into something more than
a rainy Monday morning...

pounding the side of tonight

and still there are times
that the pen just won't move
and the page stays blank
under thought how many
different ways can it be expressed
quest for answers
and more questions
as the minutes role by like
tumbleweed in the desert
still the mind goes blank at times
unwinding in the awful heat
and humidity nearly thirty minutes later
the page remains less than full time job
collecting thoughts for any and all
to see if they care who does
the thinking and who stands
eyes focused on the page
beneath pen and deep thought
pounding at the side of tonight
long passed too tired
to stay awake sixty minutes passed now
barely two pages filled
what is he thinking as the night
slips closer to tomorrow
further from yesterday and some would say
he's got nothing to speak
of thought he's got
too many...

stop the death

three months since forces
won the battle still fighting
the war for what?
how many are going in
every corner of the earth
armed everyone
ready to destroy each other
money and power
and influence
there is no moral reason
hiding somewhere
behind all the greed
three months since forces
started liberating
and today I drove by
a war memorial in the city
thought that the aim should be
to decrease the need for such
memorials stop the wars
stop all the death...

enormously hot

unusually rainy and then
enormously hot
sticky the kind of air
that's hard to breathe
every other day it smells like rain
and does but even the momentary
cool breeze doesn't last for long
the sound of the afternoon rain in the trees
might actually be worth every drop of sweat
adjusting well for whatever record
spinning end over end at times
avoiding a step deep into some pit...

this crazy world

sometimes I find myself

wishing I was in the middle

of somewhere else

where life might be different

happy here in the moment

would be fun to live

this life in a different place

change of scenery

each morning I watch

the night wake into day

how nice though would

those first splashes of color be

coming up over mountains

or a beautiful ocean-scape

truly believe everyone

needs a change of scenery

from time to time

and to see the natural beauty

of sunrise somewhere new

for a change

in this crazy world…

close out the day

funny how a day can pass
so fast without seeming
like anytime at all
sometimes all confidence
is lost then sitting backward
with Charles Bukowski
some hip hop and a smile across
the room and the moment lasts
for hours and funny how not many
might take note of these things
maybe because others don't
care to waste the time
thinking of what to say
put the pen to page and get it
out of the way as three or four
get flipped in each sitting
hits the ground running
another silent sound
created time and space
moving in every direction
won't cross it out to make a correction
keep moving on might actually
fix itself if not tomorrow will
still be a sunny day
somewhere above even the thickest clouds
especially when they threaten to darken
this day and it's funny how
the slightest sound or breath
of silence will send the mind rattling
down one of those hallways
that keeps going until
the pen starts to get the page
a bit messy realizing eyes
starting to close out this day...

hope is dead

Bob Hope died yesterday
so now I can no longer
say 'keep Hope alive'
goes to show me what is funny
and what is not funny at all
he was 100 years old
and now he is dead
honestly I didn't really think
he was all that funny
anyway his biggest audiences
were troops overseas
or home for a break
and I guess when the job is
killing and gruesome
and not at all funny
Bob Hope could get you laughing
so to the soldiers he gave a smile
he will be missed...

extreme sound

who will hear
this voice not loud
like an unhappy child
loud like an explosion
taking with it many blocks
building in reverse
with no warning
or preparation
just extreme sound from
all around...

the heat is terrible

the heat is terrible
everything is sticky
can't put a shirt on my
back with out it getting
soaked while my bandanna
remains drenched too
the smell of rain in the breeze
soon the rain will fill the sky
outside the air will cool down
until the I will sweat
in the heat still terrible
pain in the brain
until all the thoughts released
into the freedom of these pages
given a thought to go on
now is the only choice
in the heat struggling to keep
focused on the task at hand
out reached waiting to be held
late night until eyes closed far away
from the heat and terrible humidity
making the air outside nearly
unbreathable inside smoke surrounds
like sound of thunder rumble
and lightning flashing above
lit up momentarily like a strobe light
and the heat is not so terrible
after rain cuts through the humidity
into the dark night sound
on leaves and grass soaking up
all the heat still terrible
breathing and sleeping weather
then when all hope for a cool rain is thrown away
the colder front slams into the side
of this humid night...

next to words unwritten

the rain pounds the ground

and his hand almost won’t grip the pen

sliding right out of hand

onto the page next to words

he hasn’t written yet

the thunder crashes overhead

rumbles the walls and floor below

what would it be like

if he didn’t write it all down

what would he do with all his time

spent thinking and reading

distracted by all the noise

the rain pours down in buckets

but it wouldn’t matter if he didn’t

write it all down for some to see

lucky or unlucky who is to know this

who has these answers…

strength & patience

the night is sticky
just sitting still
might make him sweat
thinking it’ll all make sense
in reality nothing
seems real anymore
parts to a grand dream scattered
here and there
for the rest of his life
hoping someday
all the pieces fit
with no trouble
from any direction
positioning himself
behind at times
he doesn’t want to be seen
heard long ago
that nothing comes easy
strength and patience
go hand in hand…

free fall from 12 thousand

one month since last cracked
this book and no one knows why
two books going at once
and I haven’t asked around
guess I just assume
no one knows why
even if they do
do they understand
the stagnating thoughts
they are reading them
and that is the point
tonight tomorrow or Wednesday
getting my thoughts read by others
some might think as much
close to overload as one can get
get one free if you pay for the first
sixty seconds is a free fall
from twelve thousand
on your birthday…

silence on the porch

silence and the rainfall

sounds heard tonight

silent approach

to thoughts unknown

old pen new thoughts

try desperately to flow

smooth something’s blocking

the flow stop in the action

something’s in the way

silence all that surrounds

at night darkness takes

overhead a blanket

smudged words

on the page

not quite as remembered

silence much different

everything feels fine

it’s where he began

and will end all over again

who could’ve predicted

this outcome silence

and a night called Friday

still no weekends

anymore for the American worker

stuck behind one day off

and a ridiculous hourly wage

silence will never equal

the riches other will attain

in material riches can’t buy

happiness more stress never rest

to keep silence from attacking

him where he sits

on the porch…