Bedtime soon and demons shall awake;
but with a soul gone there’s none to take.
The screams in my head scare the spirits away.
Nightmares fast-forward to the light of day.
The ghosts turn white when I yell boo.
And the Reaper can shove his sickle too.
Coz in reality horror lives and fantasy dies.
And sleep‘s just a void behind closed eyes.
In times past the sky gifted hydration.
Now bile and acid rain down on the nation.
Sons spy through a growing and graying cloud,
patrons and maidens aglow and proud.
Though these gilded reflections are not for all,
till again the reign shall rightly fall.
Be wary what the mind bender’s say.
They’ll change a heart along the way.
Though if to hear it’s already too late,
you then wake to find no second date.
Hot Headed, Wet Footed
A bridge burned today
May be the bridge needed to
All and Nothing
In an infinite
Universe nothing can be
Random when all is
I can’t remember
If I’ve ever forgotten
Anything at all
In a faceless matrix of time askew
Meetings missed by seconds, few
Souls pass blindly, hearts fade blue
Til the chime awakens me and you
Invisible wings adorn,
soaring above time,
peers pasts. Presents futures.
Controls none but Deja Vu.
To land to birth. To pass they do.
In a constant state of pre-incarnation,
an old soul preps for the next incarnation.
They’ll reconstitute a Renaissance anew,
options limitless though choices are few.
They’re birthed to body without a direction.
Life’s lived unknown but for premonition.
No purpose made clear as to why we are here.
Yet these old souls sense what’s really there.
For reasons unknown and beyond speculation,
the old souls know of their next reincarnation.
And Sally like others still live on today,
ever changing the world in their own small way.
the latest haunt of specters,
We seek to seek a clue
for paths straight and true
where the angle we pursue
is our own point of view.
Degrees unchanged are unseen.
Answers lurk in space between.
All turns return to the mean.
Golden suns and blue sky green.
But the wind never bends.
A loner never lends.
Always best is time with friends.
And the unsummed heart someday mends.
Free is what we all want to be.
A future’s what we want to see.
Imagination’s what we want it to be.
Dreams are what we choose to see.
Reality is what happens to be.
We are what is our reality.
Beginnings and ends, naked and alone,
all’s to know then to atone.
Little wings in an Age of Aquarius,
forever is a question if forever curious.
Or never ask and never know –
which direction you should go.
Up or down or in-between-
or never go then never seen.
And never seen is never known –
never known naked and alone.
sck071317 / MAOA
Rejection’s heard and intention reversed,
when words said are “let’s be friends first”.
Regarding romance this theory’s wrong,
friendship follows and it won’t take long.
First there’s attraction with a little spark.
Nervous words follow, seemingly a lark.
Calmness soon settles then desires grow.
You talk for hours with so much more to know.
Feelings grow deeper and emotions run high,
Trust is unquestioned and your head’s in the sky.
Times had together much the same as friends,
until a kiss goodnight when your blissful day ends.
Does anyone ask for less and then expect more?
Why should romance be any less sure?
Isn’t an honest start more likely to last long?
Or start at the end, what could go wrong?
Real is what fantasy was.
Past the future the present because.
Time’s random and watched seen.
Seasoned hands severed clean.
Eyes open to days new.
Lips count more than two.
Noses first as sayings go.
Minds think heads show.
And poems end just because.
Fantasy is when real was.
If to imagine a perfect life;
paths of ease and little strife,
morning smiles and a noon surprise,
sunsets reflected in each other’s eyes.
Our eve’s playful, toying future schemes.
Nights shared cuddling, kissing and living out our dreams.
The sun then will rise for me and you.
Each day a new start of our lives anew.
Taxing Tax Free
The nice thing about
being an author is you
wrote your own paycheck.
More or Less
If you try sometime
you do find you get what you
tried for but no more.
Dueling Wits, I Coulda Had a G8
If a sum’s greater
than its parts, then parts lacking
must be a summit.
Going, Going, Gone
A poet can see
the past, present and future.
Then write all the wrongs.
In time we all green,
some blossom, others jaded.
Most just get moldy.
Pocket Full of Poesy
We’re going to hell
in a hand-basket held by
Time changes a changing day.
A change of heart just beats away.
Respect and admiration flow gleefully.
Desires swell exponentially.
Courage grows when feet should run.
Dreams await when words be fun.
With no eyes, face or voice to engage,
letters askew from heart, hand to page.
Lives texted is now the rage
Costumes change when word’s the stage.
Act’s order confused when time’s a game.
This world virtual is never the same.
Familiar ground or faraway lands,
there’s sunset’s together holding hands.
Then warm embraces when times seem right,
till the days last kiss with every goodnight.
Our times of joy always more joyful,
while times of sloth simply delightful.
We’ll share our laughter and our sorrows.
We’ll delight in our today’s and tomorrows.
We can do and be what we both dream.
We’ll build new lives as none have seen.
Though the formula needed I do not know.
Yet when seeds planted time does grow.