City Under the Porch

I remember
Digging in the dirt
Making roads and hills

The towns
Of small houses
And toy cars and trucks

Stretched out
Under a sky of planks
Where even a boy must crouch

The dirt
Was fine and dry
With an olden smell to it

Surely boys
Before me made cities
In that same sleepy dirt

But now
Have grown up to live
In small houses of their own

Those roads
In my hidden city
All just came to an end

Sometimes I
Wish I could be that
Boy under the porch again

A Spinning Fern

One wouldn't think a spinning fern
Would make an especially good home,
But I suppose if that dizzy world
Was all one had ever known,
Then a second thought would not be had
For the surrounding porches rotation
And a house on firm solid ground
Would not be grounds for elation.
This shelter from the thunderous storms,
That in springtime often come our way,
Is a shade to keep the murderous sun
From cooking with the heat of day.
For my raspberry capped friend this
Fern is more than a place to nest.
It's a home for his mate, his young
And a pillow for his weary head to rest.
If solid ground and firm foundations
Were all one had ever known. Then
One wouldn't think a spinning fern
Would make an especially good home.

Undercurrent

You're proud of me?
A hollow pride it must be
And my guilt strains
From your ignorance

There are things
Thoughts you don't see
And deep silent pains
Make the difference

Me and Lord Byron

Me and Lord
Byron are lying
On our backs
Looking up
At the stars

He asks
Something, I'm
Not sure what
And I grunt
In agreement

But my thoughts
Are out there
Beyond the
Thinnest air
And they dare
Not return
To this rotten
Lump of
Mud

Traveling Dreams

A train whistle pierces the darkness of night
Distant smoke billows up a steamy white
Washing my troublesome thoughts away

That familiar rumbling makes a home feel right
My friend follows tracks till out of sight
Having brought peace at end of day

Tomorrow evening shall again witness the might
As he rolls by the town, troubles seem trite
Listening to what he has to say

Disappearing in soft stillness of days first light
Dragging uneasy dreams like the tail of a kite
While long shadows hint at start of day

Anthem of I
Problems with the Social Construction of Reality

Secular humanistic socio-philosophers (the new high priests)
Spill babblings about cultural norms
With esoteric vainness they preach from the classroom
Proclaiming truth is anything agreed upon
Surveys show that 85 percent polled are happy in their dreary existence
A statistic more compelling than the obtuse ideas of morality and absolutes
The tired, unruly, ignorant masses decide what is right
And what is socially uncomfortable
We the people, in order to obtain that perfect feeling of safety,
Do sacrifice all of our rights to the god of legislation
Giant cookie cutters stamp out sheet after sheet of gray youth,
Making the social construction of reality a problem for me...

The Individual

My Carriage to Ataraxia

The pitter patter of tiny rain
Varied by even the smallest breeze
Rocks me off to a soft slumber
Like the rolling, dreaming seas

A hypnotic sound as it splashes
Against the silent, sleeping leaves
Through the ground it steadily seeks
The roots of giant weeping trees

The easy crackle of falling drops
Sounds like a bubbling mountain stream
It lifts me up and carries me off
To that peaceful, perfect dream

I Beat Her

I beat her
Not with fists
Or physicality
But with manipulations
And things left unsaid
Just a look
Sometimes that's
All it takes
Then that
Inconvenient spirit breaks

When she is
Not quite molded
Where she is
Not quite shaped
When I must
Steady the keel
I beat her

Into a
Malleable sheet
Of wife and woman
Transfigured from
What was
Into what
I find comfortable

The Tree

In the heart of a country field
Stands a solitary tree
With no one to share it's secrets
With, except perhaps me

During the winter's icy months
Bough and branch harbor snow
Sounds of hunters crunching feet
On the frosty bark echo

Spring Rains wash away the sins
Of December's chilly freeze
Traveling winds carry it's thoughts
Across the listening seas

Robins come to pay their homage
As if this natures throne
Was a type of heavenly portal
Through which His glory shone

Sunbathed branches silhouetted
Against a pale blue sky
Listen to the praise of crickets
And the whippoorwills cry

Dancing slowly with clouds above
The summer winds sing a tune
When clouds fade and stars appear
It's soft lit arms hold the moon

The Cricket King

I wonder for what these crickets sing
And who if any might be their king
Their harmonious chant goes on all night
Paused only occasionally by a sudden fright
And silenced are only the few ones near
That unnecessary cause of their abrupt fear
The rest continue with the nocturnal song
Making willows and ferns feel like they belong
To this ethereal, age-old, night time scene
Where shadowy creatures in dusky woods seem
As if they know why these crickets sing
And who if any might be their king