Monthly Archives: April 2013

Beauty of it All!

If only we could see each other from the perspective of the other,
Oh that you would see the very picture and personification of love
contained in the view that is your inner shine and outer radiance,
plain for all to see,
yet me to adore and admire.
From within your soul commands the greatest attention as it emanates, fresh:
Imagine the taste of strawberries,
A newly picked mangoe,
the smell of freshly cut grass,
the look of a French masterpiece
and the feel of love as understood by a child:
This is the impact of your souls amazing shine,
Illuminating my darkness,

My black dog,

leashed in;
Peering deep within,
Guiding me toward happiness.

One might think that this is enough to explain
yet this is merely a scratching of the inner surface
while the exterior also delights and intoxicates.
From the tip of your gorgeous toes
to the ends of your magically brown hair,
a new picture of a package rare emerges.

As Doisneau captured lovers in the city of lights,
Where my head resides,
with the feel of love caught in single images,
yours is much more than a thousand words,
with the richness of chocolate, milky,
the elegance of truffles,
and the rarity of Fugu.
Your beauty is the realization of every artists desire.

Van Gogh had sunflowers and starry nights,
da Vinci his Mona Lisa,
the Group of Seven the gracious Canadian landscape
while Fellini his films,
But I know a joy they never did –
For I know love as truth, innocence, beauty and light –
Mon Key,
a Muse like none other and these words are but an attempt (in vain)
to seize the essence
that I am fortunate enough to know –
perfectly imperfect,
by divine design,
I know you and now my life,
Through you,
With you,
For you!



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WE are the CHILDREN!

We are the children,
We need not know of the iniquity of the past,
Save that We,
The children,
Will learn and grow,
So that we may right the wrongs that were handed to us,
An intergenerational tyranny that is as old as time itself.

We are the children,
Africans, Asians, North Americans, South Americans and Europeans,
Those hold on our shoulders a weight,
That even Atlas himself could not withstand,
With no alternative,
Our parents,
Adults the world over,
Have failed us,
In that you teach us to be ‘good children,’
And yet, your daily actions,
Are in direct contravention to what you preach,
We’re curious,

We are the children,
That need to find and develop,
Green technologies,
Settle age old boundary disputes in an age when the world as a whole,
Is more important than a sliver of land,
Yet you fight over it,
You kill and maim and destroy,
Thus, we ask you,
What kind of example are you setting?

We are the children,
Those come together to play,
Leaving behind the folly of race,
For we all are one,
We are a team,
The team,
That will finally put to rest,
The many issues that you’ve left for us,
And we accept your challenge,
Yet bemoan that when you could have acted differently,
We were and are your answer.

We are the children,
Smiling all,
Come together through this ball,
A beautiful football,
(Soccer for you in North America),
To play this game,
That is a metaphor for the coming challenges,
As strikers, keepers, mid fieldsman and defense,
Will rise to meet the coming day,
Heralding a new horizon,
Where peace is not only possible but a reality,
Where environmental holocaust is averted,
Where what makes us different is not nearly as strong,
As what unites us,
And united,
We children say unto,
Watch out,
For our day is coming,
And thus,
So too is the new horizon…

Though we do ask of you,
Don’t mess this world up so bad,
That we can’t mark a new day,
And we entreat you,
To embrace your inner child,
For in that innocence,
You’ll make our job,
That much easier…

We are the children,
Your children,
Begging of you,
A chance,
For a better tomorrow.

We are a force,
And soon we will be reckoned with,

We are YOUR children!


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You Don’t Know About Me

‘You don’t know about me…’

How could you possibly?
I mean,
You walked a mile in my shoes,
Want to try on crazy and see how it makes you feel?
This side of lunacy is a sick joke played on me daily,
So no…
You don’t know about me.

A boy trapped inside a mans body,
My mind that of an ancient sage,
My temperament that of a little school child,
Wandering free and innocent,
Though the man in me is guilty,
So no…
You don’t know about me.

Conversing daily,
With Huck and Tom,
Ernest and Edgar,
Peter Pan and Mowgli,
I am the little prince,
So no…
You don’t know about me.

I played in your world,
I did what you wanted,
I tried to be everything you expected,
And I always came up short,
Maddening me,
Saddening me,
Propelling me to a pharmaceutical plain,
Just to be inside the line that you feel secure with,
So no…
You don’t know about me.

Like Tom and Huck,
I travel (proverbially of course),
The Mississippi looking to regain strength,
To regain my sense of self,
Freedom found on treacherous waters,
But none so treacherous as you,
So no…
You don’t know about me.

The third of eight children,
Always stuck in the middle,
Highly educated,
Highly underrated,
My own worst enemy,
Is something I can’t escape?
So no…
You don’t know about me.

I’ve worked high and low,
Written for the rich,
And serviced compactors for the poor,
I have arrested shoplifters,
And been chef to the stars,
So no…
You don’t know about me.

I’ve been rich and poor,
Always rich in spirit though,
I have lived in well appointed homes,
And a stairwell when it all went south for my father,
I’ve hobnobbed with the famous,
And searched for a meal with the homeless,
So no…
You don’t know about me.

I have loved three women,
Only three,
Though I assure you I love them all,
I have been close to marriage once,
Gotten down on one knee,
And given a beautiful ring to the girl of my dreams,
At least that’s what I thought,
When I discovered the nightmare of apathy,
Only to be cast aside,
A refuge in my own loving,
Let down by love,
So no…
You don’t know about me.

I am scared,
Ripped apart,
Torn and twisted,
I am all this and more,
But you…
You don’t know about me.

And I wonder if you ever will!

Though you,
You must,
If this ‘thing,’
Is to be our thing,
You must,
And I believe,
You do;


Though you may not know me,
Fully, not yet,
I certainly believe you will
And what’s more,
That you will,
You must,
Like all you see,
All of me,
For all of you!


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My Mind – Shakespeare’s Words

My Mind,
Like two lovers star cross’d,
Doth protest too much,
Fortune like the market,
Where delays have dangerous ends,
And small things make base men proud,
Bid me discourse, I will enchant thine ear.

No beast so fierce but knows some touch of pity,
These words are razors to my wounded heart,
Such an injury would vex a very saint,
Asses are made to bear and so are you,
That unlettered small-knowing soul.

The heavenly rhetoric of thine eye,
For courage mounteth with occasion,
I will instruct my sorrows to be proud;
For grief is proud and makes his owner stoop
I do not ask you much;
I beg cold comfort.

Things past redress are now with me past care,
This music mads me: let it sound no more,
The clamorous owl, that nightly hoots, and wonders
At our quant spirits,
Lord what fools these mortals be.

I will make thee think thy swan a crow,
Virtue itself turns vice, being misplaced;
And vice sometime’s by action dignified,
See what a scourge is laid upon your hate,
That heaven finds means to kill your joys with love.

Well then, once in my days, I’ll be a madcap,
A Corinthian, a lad of mettle, a good boy,
Rebellion lay in his way, and he found it,
Greateness knows itself.

I am Sir Oracle,
And when I ope my lips let no dog bark!
God made him, and therefore let him pass for a man,
I never knew so young a body with so old a head,
This night methinks is but the daylight sick,
Past and to come seem best; things present worst.
Before thy hour be ripe,
I would give all my fame for a pot of ale, and safety,
But if it be a sin to covet honour ,
I am the most offending soul alive,
He wears his faith but as the fashion of his hat,
Stemming it with hearts of controversy.

The abuse of greatness is when it disjoins
Remorse from power
An itching palm,
One out of suits with fortune,
The “why” as plain as way to parish church,
This is the very false gallop of verses.

Sell when you can, you are not for all markets,
A little more than kin, a little less than kind,
Season your admiration for a while,
Give thy thoughts no tongue,
These tedious old fools,
The indifferent children of the earth.

Come, give us a taste of your quality,
A very riband in the cap of youth,
Reason, in its self confounded,
Saw division grow together,
Words pay no debts,
My mind is troubled, like a fountain stirr’d:
And I myself see not the bottom of it.

Farewell, fair cruelty,
The web of our life is of a mingled yarn,
Good and ill together,
Condemn the fault, and not the actor of it?

Virtue is bold, and goodness never fearful,
Truth is truth
To the end of reckoning,
I do perceive here a divided duty,
For I am nothing if not critical,
Men should be what they seem.

It makes us, or it mars us,
Mend your speech a little,
Lest you may mar your fortunes,
The art of our necessities is strange,
That can make vile things precious.
Pray you now, forget and forgive,
I wonder men dare trust themselves with men,
I am Misanthrope and hate mankind,
Look like the innocent flower,
But be the serpent under’t,
Memory, the warder of the brain.

Shut up,
In measureless content,
Things without all remedy
Should be without regard: what’s done is done,
When our actions do not,
Our fears do make us traitors.

I bear a charmed life,
Eternity was in our lips and eyes,
Bliss in our brows bent,
Music, moody food
Of us that trade in love,
To business that we love we rise betime,
And go to’t with delight.

The beast
With many heads butts me away,
The game is up,
I wear
not my dagger in my mouth,
And art made tongue tied by authority,
The hardest knife ill used doth lose its edge.

O benefit of ill,
For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright,
Who art black as hell, as dark as night,
Your tale sir, would cure deafness,
The fringed curtains of thine eye advance,
Lest too light winning,
Make the prize light.

Do not give dalliance,
Too much the reign,
A kind
Of excellent dumb discourse,
But this rough magic
I here abjure,
O brave new world,
That has such people in’t!
The mirror of all courtesy,
This bold bad man,
Heaven is above all yet; there sits a judge,
That no king can corrupt,
A peace above all earthly dignities,
A still and quiet conscience,
‘Tis well said again;
and ‘tis a kind of good deed to say well:
and yet words are no deeds.

So may he rest;
His faults lie gently on him!
To dance attendance on their lordships’ pleasures,
Let us not burden our remembrances
With a heaviness that’s gone,
This thing of darkness I acknowledge mine.

Shakespeare’s Words – My Mind


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Je Suis le Roi des Mots

Of these ruins,
My tattered psyche,
I am reborn,
With every cycle,
A revolution,
Personal, atomic and spiritual,
Always reclaiming my domain,
This mind,
King of words,
My throne,
My soul dominion,
Medicated or not these words flow,
Now choosing instead to wage this war,
With myself,
By myself,
For myself,
These words,
Mightier than all the rivers in the world,
Stronger than any standing army,
And all the weapons of all nations in history,
As has been said,
“The Pen Is Mightier Than the Sword,”
And my words are,
For I am transformed when I sit,
In my trance,
Dancing fingers,
Mind alive,

King of these words,
I hold them benevolent,
As this;
One time sullen Prince,
Unable to bear witness to their power,
Knowing it but unable to be advocate,
For my own liberation,
I now proclaim my rightful place;

King of these words;

Words as citizens,
Sentences as my court,
Poems as knights in shining armor,
And Marion as my Muse,
Reborn thus daily,
King of these words,
Master of this house,
No longer of cards,
But instead built upon the only foundation I know,
My mind,
Blessing and curse,
Dogged as I am,
By this dreadful Black Dog,
I persist,
Of these words.

Out of the ashes,
Of this fragmented mind,
Three I’s as one,
I and I and I,
Cycle by cycle,
Deluded not by the world I see,
But rather by the world I don’t see,
Mind alive,
Wings of fire,
Passion reigns,
As I and I,
Accuse myself of relegating I to the dungeon,
As the Tower of London expects me daily,
For which there is no escape,
Invisible scars,
Though I am yet to have the will or strength,
To do what I must,
Or is it here,
Just beyond the hue of my understanding?

Only I can set I free,
And I must,
From this burden,
From me.

I and I and I,
Motivate daily,
Scribbles of escalating intentions,
Less pomp, more circumstance,
In truth,
Without equivocation,
For if I hide from the scourge and the shame,
How am I to be believed,
As I have taken on this crusade,
To let others see what they cannot,
To feel what they can’t or won’t believe,
To find understanding,
Where before there was none,
Do you,

I and I and I,
Witness to the feasibility,
Of this King Poet,
Warrior Poet King,
Testifying that one day,
These sullen cycles of depression and angst,
Will be cast away,
Or at least mitigated,
By force of will,
Running as I have,
From the pharmaceutical nightmare,
That plagued me,
Worse than my dog itself,
Je suis le roi des mots,
I am King,
Of these,


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Detained by my own self loathing,

I could not see past the mask that I had assembled,

Equal measure,

Comedy and tragedy,

The story of my life played out on multiple stages,

And in multiple dimensions,

Partially as defense mechanism,

Partially as undeniable stupidity,

For this open book that is my life,

Need not be censored,

Need not be less than what it is,

For you who stand in judgment of me,

Should, as Bob Marley says;

“Judge not, before you judge yourself,”

Acutely aware of my many faults,

Including things that you may not view as blunder,

I stand ready to embrace them,

And if you can not,

Then I must say unto you,

On your merry way,

Trot out of my life,

Like an unbridled and wild horse,

For you will never understand me,

You can never know me,

I am built on Shakespeare’s fatal flaws,

Shakespeare’s fatal flaws a guide map to the stage direction I call life,

And where you see weakness,

I find an ocean of strength,

I find a determined will,

To live,

To be,

To become,

I find virtue (and a little vice),

That now brings me to this,

A manifesto of my own accord,

A new manifesto,

A new life,

My design,

As intrigued by destiny and fate,

As determined by hard work,

Book ended by two parts of myself,


Sweet and innocent me (sweet yes, innocent, Judge not)

And then,

The darker,

More Mr. Hyde part of myself,

The voices of my past and present,

And the literary giants of infamy,

Hemingway; “Write drunk, edit sober” Key word; “Drink!”

Calling me to action,

Beyond my fatal flaws,

In spite of them,

Revealing all of me,


Without censor,

Without fear,

Without worry,

For I am,


and I am,


Faulty and flawless,

For me,

For you,

For us!


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I’m Glad I Didn’t Meet You… Before… I Died!


It’s funny, how words reach the soul,

From a smiling song,

I’m Glad,

I Didn’t ,


Before I met;


Even an ocean apart,

Once literal,


Now figurative,

No longer true,

For it is beyond the realm of possibility,

That I am starred in the face,

By thoughts that are indeed not,

So great for those ladies of amorous deliberations,


My Mistresses Destiny and Fate,

Sing a tune invisible and unheard,

Like those scars I try to hide,


Through a choir of distant stars,

To a world not ready for their imparts,

One song that reaches at the strings within,

Tugging them,

In directions only moments before unthought-of,

For they bequeath to me,

Through the soft caress of words,

And the subtle knowledge of touches, deft and daft,

Wild insight to the nature of human longing,

Two erstwhile lovers without love,


Both passionate souls refined in time,

Seeking that moment, that delicious second,


Nanosecond, time seemingly standing still,

For it is,

Where the spark of intention broadcasts plain,

The brain no longer holds the wheel, the mind captive and captivated,

And instead the heart and soul incite you to feel,

To truly sense,

Their songs a ripe intoxication,

Such is the beauty and wonder of time,

Such is the beauty and wonder of life,

Such is the beauty and wonder of these words,

As on my shoulder, Darling, I feel the imprint,

Of My Black Dog’s paws and

Of that spectacle that only true believers feel,

That quiet unknown that roars for consideration,


The sentiment of confused fire,

That without life IS somehow less,

But not today, not here, not now,

Not you,

As I feel the hand upon my shoulder,

Guiding these tender sentiments,

In a mind askew, distant in deliberations,


Ripe and abhorrent, torments,

Of love come and gone,

The subtle grasp that a heart feels when lost in romance,

In you,

Releasing the past while relishing the future,

Delivered in the present, and you are a present;


Serendipity revealing a wondrous accolade,

How do I clamor when I feel her blessed admissions,

Over time, she calls with premeditations understood,

Though not entirely clear,

For she speaks to the soul, beyond the minds recognition,

To my soul, beyond my comprehension,

Leashing in my hound,

Syncopating the hearts steady beat,

Jarring it into a body sensation that is without equal,

For her calling card,

Is here revealed,

For you,

For me,

For All;

For what are these words,

But the jewels in the crown,

Of this coronation,


Like Phoenician purple,

Trading sorrow for joy,

My Black Dog,




For real understanding,



Promise and surrender,

That never before now,

Could I know,

Could you?

For what are these words,

But the true expression,

Of a wandering soul,


Like a butterfly in a net,


Longing to be freed,

For you,

To you,

Knowing that it is only this expression,

Of what is known,

That releases me,

Back to the Ether,

Back to you,

Back to me!

Returning To…

Are you singing?


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