Rest your heads on pillows down, worry not the thorn that turned my petals red. Behind the smile that mocks the clown, though all the
The Coca Cola drinking communist thinks I look ridiculous. He is wearing black high top sneakers, that retail at one hundred and forty dollars. He
Carried Away Waiting for the carriage The Pumpkin Coach of Nod to the land that’s ever sleeping the Spring in its facade in cloaks
The Road November 1, 1996 There’s another lady in your life, Though she can never be your wife, With shoulders soft and curving lines, Oh,
How many poems constitutes “a lot” of poems? Sometime last year I began trying to wrangle my poems into some kind of order, all my
Still there are the Moon and the Stars the light of the night to know where we are under the same sky and everything else
Keep these sacred cows, for meat, for milk, for skins, for leather jackets on a Saturday night, for cowboy boots, for moccasins, for baby shoes,
At the Gates of Tombs by Carl Sandburg Civilizations are set up and knocked down the same as pins in a bowling alley. Civilizations
This is how I spread my wings, on four winds in mournful sigh, this is how I live my dreams, this is how I fly,
Don’t try to put me in your pigeon hole, don’t tell me how you sold your soul, I don’t really want to know, I’ve got
I couldn’t find a wall to push this through, I couldn’t find a star to hang this on tonight. If you were here I’d tell
We like to think, we play to win, it’s call the game, of life, my friend. We take our chances, say our prayers, we’re living
Of the nights I spent in love with you, I could write all day, though hindsight has seen fit to show me, that it was
Praise If you were a poem, If you were a song, I would read you all day, And sing you all night long.
The Keeper A slow and steady flame, Does burn inside this heart, Though with it knowledge came, To rip my soul apart. Of the
I’ll draw a picture of my life, Colors running outside the lines, Bright sun blazing through the downpour, The silver lining leaking out, Running wild
I spent all of twenty minutes, Deciding what to wear, Maybe half an hour, Doing something with this hair, Then rushed through, soggy, rain-slicked
I tried to lift the whole world up, To carry it around, On my scrawny shoulders, I tried to focus on the sound, Of
Now you’re on the launchpad, waiting for the rocket ride, and if you play it cool enough, maybe they’ll invite you inside, so deep inside,
It’s Me, Pearl. An Ode to Janis Joplin It’s never me, it’s you, except that it’s always me, it has never not been me, it
You bark-tweet, shout-scream, whisper-dream, some thing into the void, Clamoring for relevance for distribution to the masses the echo back that tells you your voice
There will no more be, these roads away from me. I haven’t time, you see, I’m fifty.
The other day someone shared this great quote from Freddie Mercury that really spoke to me. I’ve found several versions of the quote.