Bad Vibes

I cried at the hands of my own hand
with trembling fingers and sad vibes.
The room upstairs, empty of you.
gone to find yourself across the land.

I set you free, time and time again.
foreseeing your return one day,
although that day will not come
it is still unconditional love.

I moved on only to find my own room
empty. Filled with vibes that bribe me
into a false sense of security and comfort
and the loneliness that comes after.

I have reconciled with my heart
that it will never be the same.
Without you, I have only myself
to blame, I forgive and live on

With the pain and am able to
achieve complete dissatisfaction.
and thrive on the interaction
of the vibe, and envision the room

just above my head where once
we shared a common bed the
vibes of human interaction coming
naturally without fictitious satisfaction.

©2009

Sex as Art

I view making love as an expression of ones love, even fucking if its with the one you love is still "expressing ones self", like art. If I were to tell the artist how to paint and what to paint, it would no longer be his/her work of art. It would not be an expression that comes from their own heart and mind and the painting would not be as meaningful.


How does that make the artist feel when they are dictated to? Maybe the artist doesn't have enough confidence that people will like their work of art. The canvas is blank unless they are told what to do. I'm not thinking that the artist can't paint without being told what to paint, but wouldn't the artist feel pressured, causing the canvas to remain blank. Maybe even cause artistic dysfunction?


Then there is the object of the expression, the canvas. It remains empty, just waiting to be brushed and stroked with the vibrant colors of the painters brush; waiting for the artist to create a work of art upon its body. It is a gift. The canvas just wants to feel the passion of the artists expression. If the canvas loves the artist, it does not matter what the artist paints.


If you tell me what to paint it is not an expression I can call my own. If you ask me what to paint, its not an expression of your own. The artist worries. The pressure on the canvas and the artist becomes too great for the artist to perform or the canvas to enjoy the brush. Just paint! Be the artist!


©2009

Am I a Ghost?

An illusion,
disillusioned by what I thought was there.

I can't see
Am I seen?
There is no transparency.

Is my voice filtered and unheard;
just a whistling of a breath
blown above the emptiness
of a bitter brown bottle?

Are my thoughts absurd?

My tears cling
like drops of condensation
to the cold glass
falling away from the walls
before the fat tire goes flat.

Will I be remembered,
was I present?

Can you see me through the toxic tar
or has my essence drowned
within the effervescence of the jar?

©2009

Deep Lake

The fog over the river this morning is so thick that you can barely see the faint lights across it, glowing from the homes on the other side. I love the river, though I am a Lake person sometimes the river has characteristics that resemble the lake, like the morning fog. I can sit and stare at it all day, just thinking. I am looking forward to the spring and all that the river brings during this season. It deeply inspires me.

The first poem I wrote that won an award is called "Deep Lake" and a pretty prestigious award at that. It won an honorable mention in the "Writer's Digest International 73rd Annual Poetry Contest" in 2004. A series of Haiku's compiled together to become one poem about a day on the lake. (Inspired by Leesome Lake in Spooner Wisconsin where my family and I spent nearly every summer camping)

Deep Lake

Early morning mist
small scale sky above the sea
placid horizon

Sunlit beams scatter
kisses upon your surface
shimmering wet chrome

Deep Lake laps my boat
emerald aura of glass
shadow on its face

Coy loon trills trills, trills
one up, one down--hide and seek
playground 'tween the greens

Blue Heron jolts time
protruding from the shallows
prehistoric fowl

Random raindrops dance
resonating ripples swell
echo through the pines

Night descends Deep Lake
soft heart beats--against the shore
lulling me to sleep

©2004