One-Hundred Years From Now

One-Hundred years from now, what will I be?
Hopefully remembered in grand-child’s strong memory.
Two-Hundred years from now, things are different.
I am a faint picture on the wall, whose quality they resent.
Three-Hundred years from now, the picture off the wall.
Forgotten and laid to rest, yet do you know the beauty of this all?
For this inglorious succession to happen, to even begin,
I must exist. I question the beginning not, for I understand the end.
The end undeservedly requires a beginning and a middle.
The beginning we learn to walk and finger fiddle;
The middle we learn what it means to live;
The end we learn what it means to give.
We give our last breath to this world.
And with my knuckle curled.
All I ask of my descendants,
Is to be remembered.


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If many spiders unite

If many spiders unite
Spinning their thin webs
They can make a rope overnight.

If more spiders combine
Aiming for lion’s legs,
They can trip with this twine.

They intend no harm for the lion they keep.
They only wish for equality
Not for themselves, but the sheep.


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You call people worms as insult

This is a variation from another poem I once wrote that can be found here.

You call people worms as insult,
Yet in all its wriggality,
That which eats dirt,
Feeds nations.

From dust you are
To dust you return
Where the worms reign
In the dirt which you rest.

We all try to escape the truth
That someday we return.


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That Cracked Fallen Tree

In my woods, only about ten feet
Off the path lies a tree.
Fallen and cracked, covered in peat,
It works as a seat, big enough for three.

It was there that we ate dinner
Taco meat, made in a gray teapot
If I could choose anyone, it would have been her
To sit and make a fire, and possibly be caught.

I cannot forget that day we shared.
It is burned into my memory like that scar
We left on the forest floor we swept bare.
Someday we will travel back there, despite it being far.

Now we sit in our kitchen, far from woods.
The teapot in storage, waiting for us to leave.
We cook on electric stove, improving our goods.
We will return my dear, to that cracked fallen tree.


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Sunrises and Sunsets are Cheap

Sunrises and sunsets are cheap.
An easy display of colors
Plastered as crass metal in sky,
Textured by puffs of vapors.

To think, you were created
With more care than some sunset.
More intricate details lie in your freckles
Than a sunrise I will soon forget.

I tell you the truth, the God honest truth,
They got nothing on you.
When God created the sun it was for all,
When He created you, it was for few.


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Hidden in Burlap Shroud

I pulled each string from the burlap
Like plucking hairs from my head
Twisting them together in tangled trap.
One hair, two hair, a Seussian thread.
Every string makes it harder to snap.

The straws start long, growing shorter
I am the only one who pulls.
Like casting lots as a hoarder,
Or running alone with the bulls.
Laying brick without the one who lays mortar.

How can one feel so alone in a crowd?
How does the string not notice it’s companions?
Their wedding cheering seemed so loud.
They eagerly overlook the new duo canyon
While I sit at the bottom hidden in burlap shroud.


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Art’s Gravestone

Power is like bourbon stinging the tip of my tongue.
Swelling to sweetness as it moves.
Warming as it sinks to my stomach.

There was a time where the heat did not work.
Where I used bourbon to move warm my fingers
So I could rattle my keyboard a little more.

I wonder if this induced heat did more than warm.
If it awakened in me the pain that I could spew
Onto the paper in quatrain-couplet unconsciousness.

Like Hemmingway, but in the wrong era.
Alchohol is still glorified, but the product of it-
My induction to art, is dead in the grave.

Burried only 4 feet deep, a shallow grave
It’s not too late to dig her back up.
On the gravestone it reads in mossy chisel:

THE ABILITY TO CREATE
CREATION – 1961
MURDERED BY SENSATIONALISM


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Myrtle Beach, South Carolina.

I watched as salty water
Repainted her pink toenails.
Gray sand stuck to them
Like ten fingers intertwined.

In a sea of faces red,
She is the wave above all.
Roaring with power, yet-
Graceful as she moves.

She has no idea her significance
No idea how she washes over
My skin, leaving trace of salt
With every gentle lap.


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The words of a pensive starving artist

I plunder for passion
Often revealed in painful fashion
The words of a pensive starving artist
Scribbled on paper ready for harvest.

Pick them with your eyes,
Pasteurize them before it dies,
That persisting pestering feeling
That is all too poorly revealing.

The regretful feeling of passing on
Without presenting my truth upon
The page for you to recognize
The passive feeling I have to compromise.

I dream of presenting my words
I ponder the crowds listening in herds
To the preciously chosen syllables,
The portraits I paint with letters visible.

The ambition soon passes and I’m left
With words left presently on my cleft.
Prowling through my mind for a moment
Only to be persuaded to be put in postponement.

If I don’t take the two seconds to put
Pencil to paper, they are lost at foot
Forgotten and past, for no one to hear
Precariously placed in back out of fear.

Fear of what? Packing another’s heart?
Do I fear poking into another’s art?
No. I preemptively sabotage myself.
I feel safer when pushed to the shelf.

It’s too pretentious.
It’s too portentous.
It’s too over pressured.
It’s too under pressured.

The lies that pop into our heads.
They keep us from potential threads
To be laced together on the pegs
That just might pull one onto their legs.


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The Pine Tree

Tall and prickly, it gains weight
Slowly as white dust lands on it.
The strong trunk supports,
While the small branches sag.

It has no legs, but those underground.
It has no arms, but those which absorb.
Never moving, but always pushed.
Never changing color, except for branches hushed.

I have legs, always moving.
I have arms, always grabbing.
Always moving, but never pushed.
Always changing, but never hushed.


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