Cold rain falls in the river, flows down to the sea, gets into the skyline, circles endlessly. Same old rain on the wind, same old pain in my soul.

Monday, August 30, 2010


Somedays, I feel old. Worn out. Faded. Somedays a white flag is all I can do. I wrote this on one of those days.

brick to mortar
straight and true
girth to height
stars racing from my grasp
a moon
that found rest
upon my pillar

argyle socks
and cardigan blue
a wisp, a nod
a point
a place
a power

but rust
and ten dollars worth of time
found weakness
and crinkle

a sway
a lean
a sigh

the old wolf
can’t mask the limp
and the gray rains
upon spent fields
of forgotten prey
and bitches
that yielded to his bite.

a pocketful of youth
in tattered
and a cane
for tomorrow’s

and so it is
and so it goes

no drunken planes
to knock it down
just well placed

by fresh pups
on wild wind

slow motion
the dust must rise
before it can fall
the trails of my time
the tracks of my hope

I’ll gather my bricks
my steel beams
and finger the grafitti
that tarnished
my glory.

I’ll draw it in
hands to lap
pull it in
line upon line
as the moon finds
and the stars
fly free
of threat

no phoenix
no fire
only ashes

what fools
they are
who believe
in time
and bank
the riches
of their blessings.