A Pick Me Up Tune

Discontent in the bar on a Saturday

Everyone seems to be okay

Except this one character

Late fifties sniffing for something young

Couple too many drinks he has

Flung

Back

Into his wasted soul

And hardened heart

This man is doing nothing

But playing the creepy old man part

His breathe reeks of alcohol and beer

Harassing the poor musicians to play

A pick me up tune

So he can swoon the younger ladies

Sickened

To my stomach as I see him rummage

Through these civilized people

He is garbage left in the summer sun

Ruining the night life of everyone

His hair slicked back in 80’s fashion

Blond with protruding teeth

Blue eyes that see

Nothing but flesh on the bones of young women

He is sickened me to no redemption

I am but inches away from bending

Flinching into a rage of spirit

So that everyone in this bar can hear it

He is a wasted soul washed up on the shore

For he is that

And nothing more

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Hands in the Barn

Working in the barn

Burnt ropes with wirey abrasion

Tender skin hoping for evasion

Wind blown grass

And summer sun

Splintered wood on floors broken

Stairs old yet not forgotten

This is where work is done on a Thursday night

Preparing for the next days engagement

Needing a cleaning before the arrangement

People will gather soon to celebrate

What makes life so joyful and happy

The walls full of webs will bloom into life

Wood dull old and crass

Will jump out with new vibes

Shaking the conversations out of the folks

While they enjoy a cocktail and a smoke

All in this barn set on an Indiana field

I will smile and be happy

When this old barn gives it’s yield

Showtime

The morning after
The lights gone
Neck sore
Could do it all the more
Evenings wrapped in wool
Sweating out heart full
Of blood pumping through veins
Pushing life on a constraint
My mind calls critics
While my hands respond
Sweat dripping down my chin
On soft linens my body demands rest
The ultimate evening test
Lights burn the floors
Tanning the evenings chords
Stress flows with tangible discourse
While the evening runs it course
Fans happy and bouncing
Through the set and over
I wake at mid morning
Head beating the latest warning
But ready I am to move on
Life lived in a rock song

The Contaminated Mind

Trash dumps filled with leftover garbage

Garbage bags filled with pieces and puddles

These puddles draw out into spaces

Spaces filled with black remains

Stains upon white napkins

Akin to other refuse piled in lumps

The waste collects from experience and form

From all the toxic air and electricity 

Running from head to toe

Upon this I know that I have a polluted mind

Taken away from the productive line

Filled with worries of which I have no control

Over the flow of my life and the rhythm in which I live

Overflowing with fears of a new life lived

Why is the mess a strong figure in my eye

It takes away from the blue in the sky

Filling it with murky uncertainty 

Certainly I can change this inhabited space

With the greener liking 

A space where life can grow 

Leaves fold into the soil and build life anew

I must push forward and never look back

Pack all that I have and journey to greater lands

This is my challenge to set free 

The chaining’s of the must terrible kind

And let the trees and flowers bloom 

Replacing my contaminated mind

The Glass Hand

Water swells and summer grass

Sand upon the evening glass

The contrast of light on dark

Upon the sky a velvet spark

A small haze of grey from cars and trucks

Full in the sky a lagoon

A muck

Creating and burning a sunset so sweet

But the sweetness is no real treat

It burns through smoke created

For all the bustling intimidated

Water gelling lapping on concrete hard

White peers waltzing on summer’s fluid

Trees lurk over houses full

Of human

And dog

And cat

Running around on the grass flat

In circles splashing on summer lawns

Fences full of splendor and hate

Making other wait

For a calling or a sweat drop

Around the corner the fruit shop

Building concrete burning in summer sun

Construction men counting seconds

Until they are done

Trains passing and divulging whistles

Upon the hills of southern Michigan

They pass with coal burning bright

Flashing lights on this summer night

The whistles whilst me to sleep

As the my eyes fall

And summer creeks

A summer day in this land

My thoughts fall through the glass hand

Constricted Constrained and Confused

Constricted constrained and confused

The moment lies in being used

Or to entertain

I am now bemused

To join these two thought

To create a soothing fluid

Of constant reminders

Of what happened in the past

In the moments viewed

Through the glass

Making my eyes see the world

Around me

That is the confining thought

I cannot see without them

In the summers brought

New ideas and constraints

The glasses around me

My new mind contains

Drumming Back Then

Delivering mail was the nine to five

With bills to pay

It was well short of the glamorous life

He had been a musician since he was young

Didn’t care for guitars

Didn’t care about the way he sung

Drumming had grabbed him right away

Counting rhythms out loud

And learning how to play

Dreamed of moving to Nashville

To aid in that Nashville sound

But life moves fast

And his chance never came around

He still plays on the weekend

To make some spare change

It is more just a simple means

To a simple end

But he wonders of what life could have been

Had he jumped off the deep end

Learning to swim as he goes

Where this all would take him

He truly does not care to know

I met him buying some drums

Sells them out of his basement

Best guy in Indiana

Drums that sound like true cannons

I believe his story and feel it quite familiar

A story told by so many players similar

Never wanted to test the waters

Looking back years later

With thoughts of what could have been

Of what life was life

And what opportunities life provided

Back then

Barbaric Nature

Baffling word barbaric in nature

Wondering if what these words mean

Could have foreseen me in danger

Biting at every corner confused

Bemused with conjunction and function

These words have settled me amusing

Creating concrete facts I am using

Never the language I am abusing

Tyring to learn a new flow and rhyme

All to be done

Not just part time

Every day

Every line

I write

Comes a new idea a new inspirations

Condensation of the mind

And spirit

Upon the paper written

In my mind I hear it

The words fell off my fingers touching

Connecting each other puzzles solved

The simile resolved

I move on to contracted spirits

And to a path contingent

On the next line

The next phrase

For each word written

Is now where the sentence lays

Wide Eyed Disdain

Eyes disdain in disbelief

Holding red lines of grief

Have not slept in a couple days

Not quite sure what this says

Words fold into each other

Bending softly and creating another

Having no real meaning to my brain

As my thoughts slow like a clogged drain

This poem is nothing more than a flow

I will let the words take me

Wherever it might go

Letting go

Is the theme distinct in my mind

A sign of the changing time in my life

Letting go and doing

Rather than talking and maneuvering

Away from steps I am taking

In a forward motion

To keep one foot ahead

On the road crushing pebbles and stones

Moving my body forward

Into the unknown

That is where I begin

The other ends

The new beginning is upon my breath

A feeling invigorating and true

Taking me away to someplace new

I will write with one eye open

The other rests

And rests

While the mind is left open