Another Brick in the Wall

Carelessness rains down upon me, such as, beads of sweat.

Memories cease, then seize…canterbury 5

Perhaps the pensive season is not done with me yet.

No matter how high my wall…a manicured finger repels the distance…

placing on guards…on stall.

‘How did I get to this place?”  I ask.

It is a point of phrase…given from the easiness of my high chair.

All is asunder…as I watch another brick begin to fall.

I ask again, and…again…

‘How did I get to this place?  how did I become so un-evolved?’

Breaching the Despair

in the contrast,  so much lurking here and there…the life is despair.

a classic contradiction…aperture and attrition.

within the light…

the conjecture…

the subject matter…

moving on can get the better of me.

tucked away in the drawer of great abyss.

where I keep keepsakes…

memories, photographs, contrition…

life remains so open…

it is hidden.

Breaking Waters

Fresh water sea gathered around at my knees and feet.

Would the memory fade?

The gentle bear at the edge of a neon street?

The aggressive wallflower that would not give up her nylon seat?

Water, secretly breaking?

May, December, lovers on retreat?

My scattered thoughts…

Re-learning how to ebb, flow and sway?

Watching used to be pilgrims bob in and out of a rainbow bay?

There is a renewed ambiance to my heart.

No matter, how sparse the spark.

A kinship for broken brick streets.

Straight but not narrow with conceit.

Quiet is the comfort with being seated near dark pastels of an ocean at night.

By dawn, a mostly faded memory and I, will move on.


I will grasp hold to the feeling of release.

Such as, holding onto someone with a too tight grip.

Knowing tomorrow they will elude my fingertips.



Sketchy Indulgence

Restraint by a shaft of evidence.


Not conclusive to ideals.

A melancholy orange…peeled.

Is it  vanity that brings me here?

For every indulgence that tells me, no.

For all the voices that fill an empty village and clutter the soul.

In the belly below a need arises from reflective window.

Such visions of clarity when I ‘cannot see myself as others do.’

Just snippets of what I used to do.

Sketched among the floundering breeze.

Simple recollections not made to appease.


Yesterday’s Raven

It all seems as if the happening…just began yesterday.

Velcro’ d lifelines that came unhinged.

It is in the manner in which, strangers stare.

As if, they are aware time has been unfair.


There had been a raven visiting in a calm before the storm.

Turning over the moments in the pleasure of flight.

Possibly in search of something he may have lost.

His bravado unaware of the upcoming spring frost.



such as an ice barge in a swollen river.

Nothing in life compares to…forgetfulness and getting on with the living.

Recollection can be a great…misgiving.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before. Poe/the Raven

Recollection can be a great…misgiving.