The Good Poet

The poet,

a good poet,

sees the world,

I mean,

really sees the world.

They not only see a sunrise,

they see the colors that dance across the horizon.

The changing shapes of clouds

being blown about the blue sky.

When they write about love,

they touch upon deeply held feelings

giving voice to our deepest desires.

Passionate kisses are felt,

the warmth of another person held close,

losing oneself in the moment

wishing it to last forever.

In the way they use words

that worm their way into a person’s heart.

Poetry becomes the portal,

through which we step into

an unseen world,

uncovering mysteries lying

just outside of our limited sight.


The Headache of Zeus

I’m looking for that perfect sentence

the one that will open this poem

the perfect metaphor never used

so that you will read my poetry.

I even bought a book or two

to help me on my quest

to find the right combinations

of those words that I seek.

Poetry for Dummies is one

that claims to help demystify poetry

only will it help demystify me.

I dream, dreams of words aligned

all in perfect poetic order

then when I sit to write they are a jumble.

Outside the sun shines bright

and I hear the birds singing

the world is slowly waking up 

as I emerge from the dreams.

Now I sit here writing once again

looking at the blinking cursor

on the blank screen of the iPad

trying to remember what I dreamed

in the midnight hours

because what I saw was that sentence

all pretty and perfect

just waiting to be birthed

a sleeping fetus

enclosed in a darkened womb

of my mind

the headache of Zeus

that refuses to be born.

The Mystery behind the Mystery

I want to cry out,

to confess that I don’t have the answers

declaring my ignorance in all things.

I want to show my hands and feet

no wounds there, no stigmata

no stripes on my back

these instead lay hidden

deep within the heart

in the darkened recesses

where the Spirit sighs

in the depths of my soul.

I feel the fraud, the jester 

speaking words of faith

like a snake oil salesman

in a time of the quick fix,

here take this and live

when all around death reigns

and the darkness gathers.

I look out onto the people

gathered in prayer

seeking comfort 

in the words I speak,

hoping to see the truth in images

distorted in fun house mirrors

as loud voices expunge the truth,

enslaving the minds 

in Orwellian silence

while the poet sits

listening for that one voice

in the midst of the noise. 

That one voice that brings peace

the one voice that breaks chains

the one voice that gives hope,

the voice that breaths life 

even as death approaches

giving light to the dark sphere

in which we live today.

The poet dares to write

the words he hears,

words that break down walls

and brings healing.

Words wielded as broadswords

cutting through the hedges

of the mystery behind the mystery

the Divine hidden within

shining its light into darkened corners

shattering the lies.


“You’re not what we expected,”

Her eyes boring through

like a heat ray melting outer layers,

seeking to find what was lost

in her own mind, as I stood there.

I looked at her tense body 

as she hurled her stones

against the imagined Great Wall

she had already constructed,

when she first came to see me

only to find it wasn’t what she expected

not hardened stone or rock

but flesh and bone and full of doubt

yet, unexpectedly, not flinching

before the assault

Writers Odyssey

I sit here staring at a blank page

who do I think I am, writing 

these bits and pieces of life

that have no real meaning.

Every sentence an agony

as I dig deep within the mine

seeking those few nuggets

of the journey I’ve been on.

It’s walking across hot coals

of broken dreams, an odyssey

where the Sirens call haunts

and the temptation of Circe awaits.

Troy is ever in my mind

the broken walls, the burned city

of relationships and loves lost

the scattered wastes littering

the path that I have taken.

It’s not the destination, they say

but damn, the journey is hard

it has to end I think, in the words

that I try to write as the cursor blinks

my own little Cyclops, taunting.

Where do poems come from?

Where do poems come from?

I would really like to know.

I know that I don’t write classic poetry

it’s all a stream of consciousness 

that I see in my head and then write.

It’s not at all pretty or well thought out

I’ve been known to use too many commas

and my grammar kind of sucks.

Sometimes, writing what I see

in the confines of my imagination

where there are no rules

and no boundaries 

can be a bit messy and disorganized.

I can see classic purists of the art

cringing every time they read 

some of what I write and say.

Sometimes I get a few likes,

even get a few nice comments

from what I post on my blog.

It means that something worked

for them who have liked.

I guess that’s what poetry is

something that reaches into another

that touches their heart

and sees the truth within.