His wings are clipped. They hold no air.
Swaying like a strand of hair.

A sad image, mixed with color and tears.
The artist weeps but also fears.

That the image might begin to fade.
To it we become a slave.

He is fallen but he does not fall. To falter in step expected, remain tall.

And as he searches desperately for that which is lost. He burns the earth with his tears. He does not realize that what he seeks is no longer obtainable. Sadly does he flutter to land but not to be a god among men. He has no pride for that. Instead he accepts what fate has written.

And as a sun dies, a star is born.
To outshine that which was lost.
And as a son is born, a father dies.
To free up light for those to come.


The Rain

I hear it coming in the form of thunder. The coming clouds tell me the rain approaches. It comes to Florida in the sound of skittles hitting the pavement and the falling of a child. It scatters across America as injustice’s banner is waved above our own. The rain pours like the pelting of protest as our military men are offered jobs at Wal-Mart as compensation for their service. It glares as the corporate lawn next to mine gets to water daily, but I am forced onto a 2 day water restriction. It will breed hot with rage when the lower 3 quarters gets tired of being told how to live by the lesser amount. The rain will come.


Misplaced Smiles

Misplaced Smiles awarded to undeserving faces.

Gather them like leaves and set them afire.

I have spread them across all the races.

The promise of future pyres.

Friendships are made in promise, not gold.

Their fortitude is thus suspect to question.

I wonder if the Misplaced Smiles were sold.

And thus we learn another lesson.


Frozen Pane

I stare through a frozen pane. The intricate trails of ice create cascading colors that glance into my eye. I barely notice. The sense of frozen time draws me and stills my heart for a second. A second of thought to contemplate a lifetime. That is what takes place today as I stare through this frozen window. Winter’s coming breath is deflected by structures created by man. We build up the walls high to keep away the cold, the unknown, and sometimes the known. But still, even after that wall is built, we catch ourselves staring in wonder. Perhaps in longing? We watch the world through a frozen pane and still wish to belong.


Giving Birth to Death

The screams can be heard from outside the home. Not surprising in this small village of straw huts and tin garages that serve as humble abodes. Strangely, despite the poverty, the place feels like home.

Soft voices whispering comforting words rise from the small window from the bedroom. He looks in quickly so as not to be noticed. Men are not allowed during these times of… trial.
He sees his wife, glowing as the sun. Her face is full of pain, such pain. He desires only to go to her, but knows that he should not. His outstretched hand falls limply to his side. He can only serve as the spectator that he is.

The village “doctor” murmurs and shakes her head. She turns and whispers something to a waiting girl who quickly darts out the door for some necessary object. On the bed his wife pants for breath as if she has run miles and still has further to go.

A shriek pierces the night and torments his ears. He will never forget that sound. Missing is the commotion of joy or happiness. Only terror at what might be happening, at what is to come.

And as the doctor bends down she can be seen to remove a body. A small body that does not move, and yet still it glows as his wife does. A piece of heaven, a piece of perfection, untouched by the hate and the fear of the world. The baby will forever sleep in peace.

In this knowledge, in giving birth to death, a father can find some comfort.


A Cathedral of Fire

I flick my pen in the direction of the walls and the ceiling above.

A Cathedral of Vocabulary is formed around me.

Like the splattering of paint, words fly forth from my baton.

I direct a Fantasia like chorus, full of meaning and hope.

Mantras we recite and in those moments we are the moment.

I wonder my room can contain it all, as the jumbling ideas create a cacophony.

And like a climax my Cathedral catches fire and begins to burn.

I drink my Famous Grouse and savor the warmth of the burning words.

As I inhale them they form nicely with the flavors of my whisky.

I savor both and join in with the flames.