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.



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.


Her Name

All I care for is a name. A label to place over the angelic face that I see, do I dare to clothe her in flesh? Is she instead the phantom I know her to be, ever fleeting from my grasp? She has danced away from my arms for years now, wearing a different face, but sometimes the same dress. A devilish red or a flash of heavenly white, it is the same tantalizing reward that I receive. I know her, I know her, but what was her name. My mind shatters from the strain of wanting to solve this mystery, of needing to understand.

She smiles and in those moments I feel the cramping of pain inside. The affliction has been known by many names, first love, love at first sight, and just a general sense of painful love are all understood conditions. Her looks and knowing glances are a testament to her attempts at murder. What a cold smile, the type of expression a killer might have while grinning at the moment he inserts his dagger into your heart. Who would have thought that the world’s deadliest assassins would be women? And to think that they can extinguish a life with a glance and crush a hope with a simple “no.” But still the men long only for a name.


A shadow and a soul

A shadow and a soul stood on the deck observing the sunrise. They argued about the past, how it had really occurred, and speculated on the future and who would not be needed. It is an interesting sight for the birds as they alternate their amusement between the man and the morning worms. The gods laugh at our seriousness and the angels sigh over our frailty in jealousy. And still we stand and ignore it all, we argue.


That Song

This won’t make any sense, my bad…?

I hear it playing, reminds me of the club and the shades of smoky grey. The line between realities, I revel in the feeling now. There it is again, a flash of image sparkling along visionary lines. Taking me there, back. Like a rose found, plucked, and then left… burning the image is simple when revolt of the mind occurs. The brain supersedes the soul and revolution’s banner is raised. It plays a sad song, like a saxophonist on a warm evening. When the mood is right and the feet do dance, how they dance. Dusty floors meet sparkling ball rooms to cascade as fireworks in my mind. And still the music plays, that song… you.



He wanders about in the landfill searching for lost treasures. Objects that people have discarded and no longer see value in. A half-eaten can of beans, a bag of bread that is only partially molded, and a blanket that looks brand new except for a tear are all the Christmas presents he needs this year. His tears of gratitude are admired by the observant birds above as they turn overhead and watch the best and worst that man has to offer. Here they behold the pure image of humility and they give witness to this man’s conversation with someone he calls Jesus. Whoever this symbolic creature is the sanctity in his name is not missed by the small-minded creatures above. They sing to each other seeming to repeat the spoken gift amongst themselves. Suddenly as one the birds begin to fly low, catching the man’s eye below, as they dramatically shoot straight up into the sky. Their action guides the man’s sight to the one he so eagerly praises and in that moment his faith is solidified in the recognition that the glory he seeks is actually above and not to be found upon the earth that he walks.