ACCIDENTAL HORTICULTURE

Unfortunately the inspiration for this poem came from a real life fall. Looks like my accident has finally caught up with me. I join the ranks of the truly handicapped. I now use a cane.


Learned of a new flower
in life's garden on
Labor Day called
a face plant.

The sidewalk blossomed
with red, painted
with fresh blood.

Backboards and neck braces
provide protection
against fractures of the stem.

AFFECT CONSTRUCTION

Another poem from WIP in Jan. of 96. I was trying to talk about how your emotions shape the person you become. I know we've been told "the clothes make the man". It's really our emotional makeup.


AFFECT CONSTRUCTION


Purposeless and non directional,
it continues to
destruct. Providing building

on contact.Built from a
blueprint without
lines. A code for chaos
and free from zones, but

present everywhere.
Condemned
structures still have
no vacancies.

The War

My , mom dug up a copy of my Works In Progress newsletter from Jan. of 1996. It was the 4th issue.This particular poem fore shadow's  my problems with marriages. Funny I use a military metaphor. You know what they say, "Love Is A Battlefield".

The War

A casualty of
emotion, logic
left
behind.

Driven by
sensation
unable
or unwilling

to avoid
being
a
victim.

DIRECTIONS AND CORRECTIONS

This is another poem that first appeared in "Works In Progress" and was featured in "Vagabond Pages". It was written right before my third marriage. I've had four and I sear this my last one. If I would have paid attention to what I wrote I would have saved myself a lot of grief.

DIRECTIONS AND CORRECTIONS
Travelwise and
found foolish.
Seeing but
ignoring all the

road signs that
would have aided
direction. Yet
it is never too

late to alter
your course. The
right way will always
be the right way.

"ODE TO AN OUTHOUSE"

I first wrote this poem a little more than twenty years ago. I included it in my first book, "Behind The Veil". It was my first favorite poem. The inspiration for this poem came from my work at the Elkins Mountain School, a residential behavioral treatment center for young boys. There I constantly observed the tragedy of young lives corrupted by their environment.


ODE TO AN OUTHOUSE


Built new from old boards
it has seen many seasons change,
even though this is its first winter.

The odor is strong but it
smells not of itself. Others have
contaminated its bowels and beyond.

Not part of the house, it must
stand alone and remain behind.
No vision, no thought.

Labeled a relic, we demand it must
be replaced with a shiny porcelain jewel.
Progress knows no compassion.

THE SYNDROME

I wrote this poem in 1997 prior to my third, not my last, marriage. It first appeared in the second year of my e mail poetry newsletter, "Works In Progress". It also appeared in "Vagabond Pages" a webzine.

THE SYNDROME
Meltdown, total
meltdown. I¹ve lost
the control but
not the feeling.

Played with fire,
yet my fingers did
not burn. Still my
soul has been
consumed

Radiation kills
without the need
of penetration. Other
kinds of exposure can
be just as effective.

Whenever Dreams Die

I wrote this poem while I was in cllege I think. I seem to remeber printing up a certain number of copies and giving it out to people. That way  could limit the amount of criticism I got.

The poem is about the outlook one must have when facing changes in your life's plans. Always be open to different directions because you can still end up in the same place.



WHENEVER DREAMS DIE



A tear falls from my
and trickles down my cheek.
The salty, bitter water burns
my lips,
whenever dreams die.

My body heaves a helpless sigh.
Fervent hope becomes futile agony.
Nothing seems to stop the harsh pains
of reality,
whenever dreams die.

I must pick myself up and move on.
My future ahead remains bright.
Everything will be alright
I guess,
when I open my eyes.