Self-pity is a stone
thrown on a still pond
that ripples only misery
with everything it touches;
eventually to dissolve, I suppose,
on the banks among the reeds
before the pond returns
to its peaceful
The snake has legs
carries a dagger in its boot
curled up to the warmth of its prey
plays heads or tails with a two-faced coin.
You know it has slipped in
when you hear the closing door
awakening with a dagger in your chest.
It’s best to forgive, be forgiven, and forgit.
Good-night, now shoo! Git.
Who dares give shit to the dishwasher for dropping a dish?
I’m not talking about beating the piss out of something
to straighten out dents!
I’m still a romantic;
a flower, a kiss,
a small candy heart
that says in fading blue letters
“I love you.”
A card or two
even if it’s from your mother
just another remarkable reminder,
in addressing the word “you.”
regardless, of your creativity fella,
it still needs to be somewhat refined
as raw gold, or silver, or coal, and
in this particular instance
oh, up your nose with a rubber hose!
Oh, oh, “F” plus
Traveling the birds path that leaves no trail
the sickle of time, the cycle of life,
became ripples from a circle in my eyes.
The splash has wet my face.
I morn less for time and change,
awakened to see
what the center had to divide.
Learning to put things where they belong;
most of them, I found,
empty under my wings.