It's True That...

My written words are apt to spell out the
Less possitive aspects of my brain. Divorce

And pessimisms. Doubts and less than
Stellar childhood memories. Dreams

Of giant apes and spiders and ghosts
Seem to haunt the black well of my pen.

In everyday life I tend to be more or less
A cheerful person - quick to tell a joke

Or hug on my kids. I love the warm sun
And White Castles. Isn't that enough

To warrant me a happy guy? Perhaps...
Maybe...possibly...could it...might it just be

Poetry is my way to vent the poisons?
If so, why do I write so many poems of love?

Maybe I'm just graphically bi-polar.

Tourist

Where to? Where to?
Where to in this wonderful land?
Drag me through your hills. Your valleys.
Draw me into your beautiful eyes.
I won't mind-

Which way? Which way?
Which way to your meadowy vistas?
Cart my curiosity across your countryside.
Cradle my love in your open arms.
I won't mind-

What now? What now?
I've been this way twice over.
My devotion driven on like a tourist
Returning to his favorite love.
I don't mind-

What now? What now?
I've been this way thrice over.
Your every curve mapped with kisses.
Each kiss an old experience made to feel new.
And I don't mind.

Like Warm Gum

Does it matter how far someone falls,
Be it from grace or someplace
Closer to Earth?

Such as from the top of three concrete steps where,
At the bottom, you landed after I gave
The tricycle we shared a 'little'
Push with my foot.

Four pulled teeth and a quarter century later there's
Still an unspoken appology stuck
Somewehere under my shoe
Like warm gum.

Scuff Marks

Some days you just get so low
That it's only when you look up
Do you realize your feet are
Dragging along the ground.

Withdrawn

The quiet ones
are the ones I truly love,
saying nothing outside their
own thoughts, silently
revealing
themselves to no one
except to those who don't
need to ask. For them
silence is an action
that speaks volumes when
even whispers and breathing
are much too strident.
Even now
I can half hear their hushed
troupe of thoughts gather
like snowy drifts
in all corners of consciousness.