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 first day of fall has arrived, the Autumnal Equinox. I am three years sober, sans alcohol, as of today. But not only that, I
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,
We barely broke eighty degrees here today. There are still some ninety-degree temperatures predicted into the middle of the month, but today Summer officially began
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
Toad the Wet Sprocket. Music from the 1990s, classified as Alternative Rock, and Grunge. I’m listening to it again and it’s speaking to me
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
Here we are, can you believe it, going into September. Where does the time go? I’m still reading Carl Sandburg’s big book of Abraham Lincoln.
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
Do you ever let yourself daydream the most fantastical daydream you can possibly imagine for your life? Some people don’t daydream like that. Others will
This isn’t what I was going to write about today. I was going to write about dreams, about thinking positive, being happy, and dreaming bigger.
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,
BOC is one of my favorite bands. I wouldn’t know where to begin to tell of the impact and influence this music has had on
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