Resolute

My buttocks hurt and my knuckles crack.
What drives me forward can drag me back.
My eyes are tired and my head is sore.
My hands are cramped, I can write no more.
~
My pages are filled with useless stuff.
And one more verse is never enough.
Pencils grow dull as does my brain.
But each day silent leaves a stain.
~
Though deep down I know the truth.
The haunt persists from my youth.
I’ve something to say, but what is unclear.
Answers will come but not this year.
~
A resolution needed this time around.
Try harder I must for I am bound.
The calendar says I’m almost there.
Glasses raised a toast we’ll share.
~
A new day begins with much to do.
Sunnier thoughts will eclipse the blue.
A cushion I’ll buy for my favorite chair.
Words will flow like a breath of fresh air.
~
Volumes will fill with the funniest of lines.
A chapter reserved for my sweet valentines.
I’ll rise from sleep as each day’s the first.
I’ll sip my coffee then quench my thirst.
~
Reflecting upon the time long past,
how the future sneaks up too fast.
And if nothing to leave advice I can give.
“Live out your dreams and a dream you shall live.”

~*~
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Habitual Ritual

From dreams inspired overnight,
her morning poem I long to write.
I wake at dawn feeling bliss,
thinking first of the day’s first kiss.
~
The kiss returned and we snuggle close.
Our ritual’s begun with a timely dose.
Her touch is felt from head to toe.
I love you shared and feelings grow.
~
Our room brightens, the future’s new.
The sun wakes to skies of blue.
I hold her close till dreams return.
I then rise with none to yearn.
~
Passion flows and coffee brews.
Words perk from flavors to choose.
Visions recalled, emotions poured.
Ink boils from the one adored.
~
Shadows dance to a beating heart.
Her eyes open to another start.
Another day filled with love and bliss.
Another ode welcomed with a kiss.

~*~
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In the Shadow of Windmill Cottage

Behold this welcome image.
Where a hill rises from a bay.
There a tiny sheltered village lay.
All in the shadow of Windmill Cottage.
Steady breeze most every day.
~
Sails from afar spill their goodwill.
From their nets sea treasure abound.
Farms thrive above on fertile ground.
Good fortune trickles down the hill.
Sea birds fill the air with sound.
~
Ancient timbers shade from lofty stage.
Labored grain grows upward at the season’s rate.
Winds howl, warmth’s aglow on the hill top grate.
Flour flows freely down from Windmill Cottage.
Where nature’s breath spins the wheel of a poets estate.
~
He attends happily to familiar chores.
Quarterly ledgers bulge beneath waistcoat fair.
His quarterly journey to the bankers’ lair.
His shadow alone opens Main Street doors.
Harvest moon will guide homeward the fortunate heir.
~
Dusk creeps up as day slips by.
Modest and ordered with nothing ablaze.
Must avoid the many scrupulous gaze.
In the shadows inhibitions die.
A visit with strangers, heads all a daze.
~
Journey’s end in darkness where hill meets bay.
Tufted coaches dash the posh up to their inns.
Others huddle by fire pits drinking homemade gins.
The trades of the night swap those of day.
Church bells echo, atoning for their sins.
~
Just another blurry face on the wooden shores.
Where the day’s death lingers and ships bells ring.
Taverns fill, ale flows and drunken sailors sing.
Fiddles play and jigs are had on the dirty floors.
Habitual killers all, Oh what joy they bring

~

Few will stay, most homeward bound.
Some laugh loudly while others cry.
Some will fight, some will die.
In search of peace to be found –
In the deep or endless sky.
~
Faceless comfort fills empty space.
Men with silver are sick for a day.
Boys with gold suffer years away.
Moonlit romance lingers on perfumed lace.
Then life’s anew beyond the tiny bay.
~
Sharing much common thread,
In this moment “ brothers all.
Whale lamps flicker on sooty wall
Making friends while breaking bread.
All await the Bosun’s call.
~
In a corner where shadows overlap.
The poet searches for his light,
Where the day’s brew flows all night.
Safe, for now from his hilltop trap,
Layers of darkness, out of sight.
~
Behold this most unwelcome image.
The seat no more where the poet presides.
Now in his shadow a filthy little demon hides.
Return not quenched to Windmill Cottage –
And wait again for the new moon tides?
~
Lonely candle spews depth on a lonely face.
Unseen pests sing their unwanted song,
The scent of time ticking long.
His travels must be many, all left a trace.
In the darkness our senses strong.
~
Hat brim low to hide his shame.
The poet stutters with utter surprise.
The traveler snickers, doesn’t rise.
With sideways glance he asks the poets name.
Honestly answered by the fear in his eyes.
~
When after long hesitation a hasty reply ”
“A traveler like you” was all that he said.
But after some ale the silence was dead.
Yard by yard many distant words fly.
Palettes grow when faces shade red.
~
Cider was next and followed by rum.
The traveler’s tales all told in prose.
The wetter the lips the faster it flows.
Hated by most, loved by some.
That’s how a traveler’s life often goes.

~

The poet a rather tall fellow.
The traveler a poet by name.
So many ports traveled they all looked the same.
His heart pumped blue, the poet gay and mellow.
Opposite sides of a coin, no one is to blame.
~
“With little time to hone a craft –
With a draft from an open door.
To close then return no-more.
To open then evermore – the draft.
Spirits gone, gone the craft – nevermore.”
~
What dribble do you speak my friend?
The poet inquired in disgusted tone.
“The dribble I think when thirsty and alone.”
The traveler quipped with message to send.
I’ll tell you another, that’s my own.
~
“Silent words are never heard –
The voiceless poet stuttered.
Repeated babble muttered.
His rhymes always sputtered.
More mindless words would be absurd.
~
The air he breathed was glutted.
His helm so poorly ruddered.
His shirts all heavily buttered.
From his many toasts self-uttered.
His mind so free and uncluttered.
~
His weaknesses many and unobserved.
Blinded to the Reaper’s shadow – deserved.
Soon the voiceless poet will be unheard.
Then blissful quiet on his paths wandered.
His welcome silence – forever heard.”
~
Drunken rabble roared with delight.
The poet withered belittled.
The traveler’s attention fizzled.
When laudanum’s sipped out of sight.
The poet escaped most grizzled.
~
Out of the dark into the night.
Bellowing air; cold, wet and starless.
His poisoned lips know no finesse.
His state of mind out of time – not right.
The poet’s mind wanders aimless.
~
The traveler tucked snugly in his bunk.
With help from many new joyous fan.
All loved the howls of this traveled Wild-man.
His tales make perfect sense “ drunk.
The favorite carried and the pompous ass ran.
~
Boot heals clack on cobble slick.
While stallion slumbers atop golden bed.
The poet stumbles upward with achy head.
If only to have his gilt throat-ed stick.
This shadowy path he may be found dead.
~
The wind that is my fortune is slowly killing me.
This hill of heritage too high for me to climb.
With forceful push from the hands of time.
Drawing me back to a frigid sea.
My misery oh-so great ” it is oh-so sublime.
~
Head tucked low, bottom up always slow.
Darkness wanes to purples then red.
Day is born, horrors of the night soon dead.
Hands and knees bloodied and bruised – falls of woe.
Alas the bodies of servants to guide to downy bed.
~
Winter’s behind, graven plans regress.
Fevered sleep past, shadows of death dawdle.
Summer awaits, the poet’s lessons dwindle.
His magnum opus went off to press.
Journey to Main Street, praise to guzzle.
~
Surveying high atop his magnificent mount.
The poet exclaimed “behold this welcome image”
Deceived by the bustle, not he the homage.
But a tome by a worldly traveler – no doubt.
It was “In the Shadow of Windmill Cottage”
~*~
The End

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The Return

Outside my window perched in a tree
Tis a winged demon that caws at me
At me it caws and caws all day
Till darkness consumes then caws go away

Tis then a candle lit, awaiting peace
Creative spark await release
The hourly chime hourly chides
This spark within creatively hides

Searching I pace in this tiny room
From shadow to shadow returning to gloom
Going in circles around in a square
Till wearily I slump back into my chair

Through random lacy limbs I spy the moon
With gentle breezes the patterns I swoon
Patterns swooning dance on dingy walls
The net surrounds and the demon calls

Consciousness concedes, silence relieves
In the dark the dark the mind believes
Rest and wait or rise and scream
Choices few at the edge of a dream

Wax drippings lapping pages bled
Of serpentine spine and heavy head
Blackness cloaks the demons night
Their quills aplenty shade the light

Demon, oh demon please let me be
Yet still they tap, tapping for me
Tap tap tapping on my foggy pane
Tap, tap tapping with no refrain

Without refrain demons tap in kind
Tapping demons tap, tapping my mind
Is this tapping, tapping to remind?
Or is it tapping to seek and find?

Oh demon cloaked with hidden face
To take from you is my disgrace
Your gifts adored left on my sill
Yet to rest on your back I am still

To be only still is reverse
Dive or fall, a lover’s curse
To soar or sink is to immerse
The spirit wishes to guide the verse

This spirit and I of common goal
Each to rise from the hole
One to fly, one to scratch and claw
Each may fall, one to caw, caw, caw

Our bond’s made to find a link
If to trade my soul I wish to think
I wish to think another’s ink
Of golden quills and wine to drink

In gilded glass I wish to wink
Then step away until I shrink
Till all is gone with a blink
But for the ink, I wish to think

I think I think, I think I see
I think I see light shines on me
Sight and sound now distortion free
The path’s clear toward tranquility

If to be a final rest, now’s to be the time
Drifting in an open mind is to be sublime
Or if to rise and most joyfully find
I’ve awakened as a different kind

To be warm of heart and cool of mind
Forward moving and never behind
Of filigree hands to align and chime
Tis then the taps return, tapping in time

Taps on the window from arms of the past
To embrace their grip the future’s cast
When cracks appear in my shield of glazing
The demon swoops for the dawns hazing

With inky beak and beating wings
Caw, caw, caw the demon sings
They dance upon the empty pages
Quills ablaze their fire rages

Then morning breaks the lidded seal
Illuminating all thought real
Am I to be taken or to consume?
Or wake to sunlight returning to gloom

Betwixt the shadows exposed by the light
Tis demons craft conjured last night
With nary a blotch nor stroke askew
Flawless leaf scribed by I know not who

I dare not share these words unknown
Through my window they have flown
The prize of demons cawing in a tree
Thus return I must this gift given me

Sck122315

Start Your Day Write

Good morning all, the day is bright.
Let’s sip our coffee then we’ll write.
The night is done, the demons at rest.
Pick up your pens, time to be best.
~
We’ll reflect upon yesterday’s past,
the good and bad that didn’t last.
Check the boxes in columns we’ve made.
And erase the X’s we hope will fade.
~
The mission begins with a feeling or word.
The march is forward, never deterred.
Ideas explode and emotions guide.
Pages fill with what others would hide.
~
The rush then over, a battle won.
Some bring tears while others fun.
Sheets bare awaken surprise.
Good morning all lets open our eyes.

~*~
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Withering

The bloom has gone from my fragrant rose.
Will it return, no one knows.
The thorns are still there, in my side.
The bleeding continues yet the words now hide.
~
The trellis climbed, my energy’s spent.
Yet each day I wake in search of a scent.
The ground’s now closer, I taste the dirt.
My feelings strong but now they hurt.
~
Perhaps a tree I’ll now befriend.
Trees live long, I’ll miss their end.
My pen will rest as I branch out.
I’ll climb again but poetry’s in doubt.

~*~
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Within Reach

This story begins where most would end.
It’s not fiction, I won’t pretend.
The moon was high, my energy low.
The night came fast, my thinking slow.
~
I heard a noise come from my shed.
A scream so loud it could wake the dead.
I stepped outside not knowing why.
Should I return or would I die?
~
Each step closer my life’s less long.
My goal uncertain but temptation’s strong.
To turn and run or hide and wait,
the choice is now, if not too late.
~
Between my door and destiny,
lay the light and dark of uncertainty.
Betwixt the abstracts of would, could and should,
in a purgatory I there stood.
~
Clinging to the past and a peace of mind,
scenarios flood to times I’d find.
Reaching out to unlock my fate,
sights envisioned now bears the weight.
~
In the dimming light of one’s existence,
the future seen in our past’s distance.
Fear now a memory, the dragons slain,
tomorrows welcomed with forever’s again.
~
The truth often stretched resilience we test.
For problems to solve persistence is best.
And the shed’s but a metaphor for time unknown.
While the night the place where stars are grown.

~*~
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Jingle Writer

I want to be a jingle writer, write jingles every day.

I want to be a jingle writer, jingles all the way.

I want to be a jingle writer ‘cos there’s bills to pay.

I want to be a jingle writer, not much more too say.

*

I want to be a jingle writer and work from my backyard.

I want to be a jingle writer, poets work too hard.

I want to be a jingle writer, don’t understand avant-garde.

I want to be a jingle writer, no need to be a bard.

*

I want to be a jingle writer and put my tools to use.

I want to be a jingle writer, write short and loose.

I want to be a jingle writer; I’ll be no Dr. Seuss.

I want to be a jingle writer until I’m cut from the noose.

*

The End

Swearing

I woke today without a thought.
I tried to write as I ought.
The hours past, the writing naught,
perhaps a blockage I have caught.
~
But tomorrow is another day.
Will I write, I cannot say.
Will the blockage have its way?
Or will the rhymes come out to play.
~
Questions asked but answer’s few.
If not to write what will I do?
Will I feel sad and blue?
Or will tomorrow shed a clue?
~
I’ll let you know, wait right here.
I’ll try my hardest, this I swear.
Long or short, I don’t care.
Because it’s always best to share.

~*~
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Be the Wind

The will of the wind with the air that be,

summons the roar from a silent sea.

When this air too shall roar,

a mighty sea bombards a shore

~

When the wind and sea collude-

all’s consumed all the more.

Can a roaring wind be silenced-

 or will it roar for evermore?

~

A question answered best in rhyme;

The shores are life, the sea is time.

The air is those around us, crying to be free.

And the wind with its will – a roaring poet be.

*

Sck010315

All Ends Dwell

I’m sorry I have no poem today.
I’ve actually started two.
But I have no endings.
So I’ve nothing to share with you.
~
Fortunately there are tomorrows.
Perhaps I’ll end them then.
Or maybe this is a metaphor;
for the fickleness of the pen.
~
Many things get started.
Only some will see an end.
But until there’s a conclusion,
a finish, we can pretend.
~
So I’ll pretend my poems are great.
They start off really well.
And I’ll imagine it’s a perfect day.
For the unknown we shouldn’t dwell.

~*~
SCK021621

Just Because

My machine is broken on this cold winter’s day.
I woke up early but I’ve nothing to say.
My pad looks lonely with no words on it yet.
So I looked out the window for inspiration to get.
~
But the sky is gray and the snow is brown.
And the hour’s too early for any action in town.
The birds are still nested and the squirrels asleep.
The cats are about but not making a peep.
~
My world is quiet, silence is heard.
My vision is clear but my thoughts are blurred.
So I look at the news, but nothing’s good there.
So alone I sit on my old kitchen chair.
~
Something will come, it usually does,
I don’t know the reason so I say it’s because.
Because, because is the answer we give when we’ve none,
so that’s all for now because I’m done.

~*~
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Getting High

I like to write lots of stuff but I don’t know why.
And I’ll probably keep doing it until the day I die.
I write a little something almost every day,
but if I never make a dime that’s still OK.
~
I wake up early everyday right around sunrise.
I guzzle morning coffee to open up my eyes.
And when the kitchen’s lit up bright,
out comes my notebook then I start to write.
~
I never know where I’ll go or if I’ll go at all.
There’s a chance I’ll draw a blank but that chance is small.
Pages now fill my desk and the pile’s getting high.
But that’s a poem for another day, so for now goodbye.

~*~
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Swap Meet

DSCN7253

*

We’re off to the swap meet today.

Dad says its work, I say its play.

Mom thinks it’s all a bunch of junk.

Who needs an old cast iron skunk?

~

Every year since I was two.

Seen the toes of many a shoe.

In my wagon with squeaky wheel,

once pulled string from an old fly reel.

~

Saw a ship of wood, bone and hair.

Dad got nervous, said don’t go there!

Great memories of dad and me.

I wish that mom would come and see.

~

Up before dawn, first at the gate.

If you’re not first, well than you’re late.

I think that second’s also OK.

Don’t follow, go the other way.

~

A laugh a push a yawn and sneeze.

New spring pollen made someone wheeze.

We’re squashed on the fence right up front.

Soon we’ll start a new treasure hunt.

~

The gate opens, I think we won.

I don’t care; I’m here to have fun.

We see faces we’ve seen before.

But the new ones are a lot more.

~

Soon the sun will rise in the sky.

Down the rows with treasures stacked high.

A day of fun, ready to learn,

Something new at every turn.

~

We pass the women in her shawl.

Sits alone, sells nothing at all.

Walking past, I’d wave and say hi.

But never did I catch her eye.

~

But now I’m ten, no chaperon.

Maybe she smiled because I’m grown.

She waved me over to come right in.

Glad to see her never seen grin.

~

I gazed into lots of old stuff,

even the best looked kind of rough.

She told me stories of each thing,

corner chair and ancient nose ring.

~

“I never sell my things of old.

They can’t be enjoyed when they’re sold,

loan things to friends once in a while,

like you” she said with a big smile.

~

“I’ve watched you pass since you were small.

On your dads’ shoulders, eight feet tall.

I’ve seen you smile and watched you grow.

Each time passing you’d say hello.

~

Walking past, eyes open wide.

You never dared to come inside.

Talking to strangers is unwise.

If I scare you, I apologize.”

~

She gave me a book that’s quite small,

not too many pages at all.

The book kept dreams lost in your head,

while you were sleeping in your bed.

~

She opened the book to page three.

Then whispered some secrets to me.

“Dreams are wishes stuck in your head.

They only come out when in bed.

~

Sleeping soundly, eyes shut tight,

mind wondering all through the night.

When you wake to start a new day,

write down those dreams before you play.

~

Follow your heart wherever it goes.

Record your trip in lovely prose.

Don’t stop writing until you’re done.

It’s never work when it’s all fun.

~

First open the book carefully.

Than close your eyes and wait to see,

all your dreams will come back to you.

But it might take a week or two.

~

Just be patient, don’t ever fret.

All things good you never forget.

I need not tell you anymore,

complete instructions on page four.”

~

She found a box, it fit just right.

I couldn’t wait to sleep that night.

Tied it up with ribbon and bow.

She gave me hug, told me to go.

~

It’s been a long winter since then.

Yes I’ve used up many a pen.

I wake each morning at sunrise.

Wipe the night’s sleepys from my eyes

~

Mom saw me writing early one day.

She asked to see, what could I say?

Together we both read out loud.

We laughed and hugged, she said she’s proud.

~

Now up after dawn, we’re not late.

Family’s first, treasure can wait.

Another year, there’s much to see,

at the swap meet; mom dad and me.

~

I hope to see my new old friend,

I’ll share my news with happy end.

I tried hard and my wish came true.

Now mom comes to the swap meet too!

*

The End

~

Available at:  https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/470879

A Beginning

I woke today, the outside’s gray,
my room’s cold and this story’s old.
Hunger persists from the night,
yet in this journal I must daily write.
~
A poet am I until I die,
often to cry, to always ask why.
With bloodshot eyes and inky hands,
words conjured from dreamy lands.
~
Time, you see, wears heavy on me.
In verse I live, it’s all I’ve to give.
The past is scribed, legends to follow.
The future fore, the now I borrow.
~
This present I speak, not for the weak.
But persist I must and forgo disgust.
Yesterday’s full of virtue and sins,
tomorrows unknown but today begins.
~
A capsule of one of a life soon done,
this journal I will, my time’s now still.
And if my time’s now relevant,
this treasure to you I gladly present.

~*~
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Posthumous Futures

~

To all the writers never known
To the few from which we’ve grown
From their words the future’s sown
Rearranged to call our own

~

To all of those that do it now
From palette pure to graven brow
Investing all we dare allow
Divesting that we can’t avow

~

Time records in poem and prose
Imagined journeys no one knows
From euphoric highs to deadly lows
The tide of emotion forever flows

~

Looking back at history
Or hypothesizing infinity
Sensations felt we can’t see
Ink bled sets us free

~

Where to start, that depends
Our time alone shared with friends
Yet all stories must have ends
Well submerged is where life blends

~

Write the dark to see the light
Time always wins the fight
And when you lay awake tonight
Rest assured our future’s bright

~*~

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None Today

~

There’ll be no daily sonnet today.

Thought has wandered and gone astray.

Nimble quill won’t dance on parchment bare,

seducing lonely on table near.

 

The well is dry from which I must drink.

Chair is empty were journeys to think.

No inky tears shed, blotted or smeared.

No blackened hands bloodied and feared.

 

Letters scrambled all over my mind.

Their chosen order I cannot find.

Brittle wax puddle proves candles death.

The darkness swallows my daylights breath.

 

Blindness shackles a masked and heavy head.

I shrink into my unwanted bed.

Heart and soul content for tomorrow.

When ink, I hope, once more will flow

~*~

sck082614

Why

Why do writers write,

why do lovers fight,

why the lonely night?

`

Why do we ask why,

why must we say good bye,

why must we even try?

`

Why do demons taunt,

why do ghosts haunt,

why does beauty flaunt?

`

Why do dragons fly,

why’s the moon so high,

why does all life die?

`

Why dream of things afar,

why does life leave a scar,

why is why who we are.

`

Sck111014

Forest of Hell

Colorless leaf crackle beneath sole-less feet.

The smell of death lingers sweet.

Bramble thick draws blood on paper skin,

digging more deeply the deeper within.

 *

Then starlight fades to the darkness I fear,

moonlight shadows disappear.

Columns abound supporting endless night,

numbers multiply consuming the light.

 *

Welcome dew hangs heavy in unseen air,

to drink deep I do not dare.

Outstretched hands replace teary useless eyes.

Senses heightened, alert of endless cries.

 *

Vibrations of night; soft, loud, far and near,

distant from all, we all hold dear.

Wanting now only to curl-up and weep,

my soul is still for the sickle to reap.

 *

Return to the path I lost yesterday,

blackness turns slowly to gray.

Long nights journey in the forest of hell,

surviving again, except for my shell.

 *

The End

*

sck~ c.2014

Seems To Be

It seems like only yesterday when time was on my side.
The future was ahead with opportunities far and wide.
The world, it seems, my oyster with all its slime and goo.
The pearls were for my plucking; now they are but few.
~
My words no longer flow and little seems to please.
Perhaps it’s just boredom or my mind is now at ease.
Age may be the culprit; it seems to fit the bill.
Birthdays cause reflection as they always will.
~
The image that is seen may not be what it seems.
Tomorrow I’ll be younger, but only in my dreams.
Today I watched the sunrise, it seems, a perfect day.
I think I’ll wake my love and kiss these blues away.

~*~
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All Right

Hurry up it’s getting late,
the morning’s nearly past.
I missed today’s sunrise
and the roads are filling fast.
~
It’s not that I’ve a place to go,
or anyone I need to see.
I just like the early morning time,
it’s when my mind is free.
~
I prefer to write at first light
and be ready when my darling wakes.
She’ll sip a coffee and read her poem,
with a couple of kissing breaks.
~
Our day then starts happily
and continues through the night.
Then we’ll snuggle once again
and know that all’s alright.
~
Whispers we’ll share and more kisses too,
until our eyelids weigh.
We’ll dream about each other
and yet another wonderful day.

~*~
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