My Poems

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Look up, look up. The stars are falling!
Doesn't the sky look pretty with such jewels of amber placed decoratively above us
We must be the gown of woven velvet
See how it runs red on the ground?
And the stitching in the clothing, it could be to die for
On this run-way of iron
I will walk
Arm in arm as we parade
We were taught to step in such a way,
I forgot my right, left, right, left
It was a game of discipline and training
We knew not of loss, that's why my stride was so confident
Our steps turned into march
I was donning a bulletproof blindfold
Which was truly a shame

I never saw the stars falling.
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-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Funeral Funeral service,
Make mine first class. Bury me with fine wines and rich foods. Silver coins haphazardly tossed onto my eyelids.The ferryman will be receiving a generous tip tonight. I'll buy the river Styx and sail downstream on a luxury tour, until I find another way to pass the time.
I shall arrive fashionably late to the pearly white gates and stand before St. Peter himself. He'll check his list- I'll be at the top of course with the initials V.I.P written next to my name.
Later I'll pay a visit to God himself. I'll give him some pointers on what went wrong. Perhaps I'll wave a hundred under his nose and take over for the day.
Buy out heaven itself and place a local tax on all its residents.
Later I'll stop off at my friend's houses, just pop in. See how the other half lives.
I'll stay as long as I want and do what I like, when I like.
I'll spend everything I have left, my time, my energy,
and my eternity.
I know I'll get bored some day. My grandma used to say you couldn't take money to the grave, but I bet there's a toll for Heaven & free admissions to Hell.
What if I refuse death? Ask for my soul to be void like an check with no signature. For no one to remember me. Perhaps that's what is fated for me in death? To become my own currency. To be passed around from person to person by word of mouth. Having my name be handed down through pockets of time until I, myself, am a crumpled up old note.
In fact, don't give me a funeral at all.
Just make sure all my damn money has left my pockets and those silver coins have been put to better use. I'll skip the ferryman and try my chances swimming. If, and only if, I make it to the gates I'll beg for pity. There's no point trying to bribe my way in.
You really can't take money to the grave, and what a grave cost it is.
It's money that makes the world go round, and its by money's hand that I shall find the ground.
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You are like a thunder that lingers after
A constant power of endless master
And I, the lightning close behind
Forever obeying the rules of time
Your eyes of storm is where I’m drawn
And your voice of beauty leaves skies torn
And even the clouds that drift between
Still can’t see the love unseen
For you are heard and can’t be traced
And I am seen in a separate space
So we are different but do exist
Even great storms will wonder this-
We are a love, above and under
“What is lightning without its thunder?”
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The gentle hand plant the seeds
A growth that shall know no bounds
The hands became the sky
Gifting water to the young, a chance to flourish
The rain turned to life, sun, and dry spells
Sometimes the seed would wonder why
The hands were so
Busy
So full.
Then the earth became shattered, destroyed.
Left baron and nurture-less
All the seed know was to grow, to show
The ground it wasn't needed
And that the sky was not where it would stop
From this seed grew a shoot, cupping the most gorgeous white rose
A journey that made the snow itself wither
The stem grew thorns
The rose drew blood
Each one
Cared for
At a prime
To be pruned
The hands
That once cared for it
Returned with shears

The seed
For its
Whole life
Wondered
"Oh why,
Oh why? Does my beauty glow so bright?"
The bloodied hand grasped
The stem
And in that moment
The two were
Together again
From the bitter journey,
the rose asked,
"Oh, for what cause?"
The hand replied,
"Oh, for what cost?"

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When it's so late that it becomes early
and the crack of dawn is but a promise.
That is when life ends, in a time,
that is so very fragile.

Only when the question lingers and
sits upon on tired tongues.
And only when it goes
unanswered.

A pause.
The infinite.
All coming together
like a sunrise

That is when life ends.
On a bridge between
two intersecting paths
that both lead astray.

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