JUST VAMPING

Bats roll

buzzards troll

freaks plague

your tormented soul

and we are waiting.

We dance by day

we dance by night

here to give you

such a fright

and we are waiting.

Brothers and sisters

we are waiting.

mothers and fathers

we are waiting.

sons and daughters

we are waiting.

sons of bitches

we are waiting.

Angels and whores trade places

in a moonlit masquerade.

Zombies dance

without any pants.

And we are waiting...

for THE NIGHT !

THE WINDS OF CHANGE BLEND WITH AUTUMN ZEPHYRS SIGHING (collaborative poem from Sanaa Rizvi and Timoteo)

HE IS CREAM...SHE IS CHEESE...
WHAT A SPECTACULAR COMBINATION!

Sanaa and I began talking a few weeks ago and seemed to really hit it off. We discovered that we share the love of autumn, and so the poem before you quickly began to unfold. We hope you enjoy it and look forward to hearing your thoughts in the comments.

When the gales of November come early

I’m a total wreck 

wind knocked out of my sails

but I’ve set a course for 

The Sea Of Tranquility

and I’ll be there 

when that big moon 

sweeps these storms from my heart.

Now these clouds

cold, mean and gray sideways rain

point toward the dark road 

my mind is travelling in,

the bruising of November 

teaches one about existence, its brevity 

I wonder if the moon knows time

and course, as leaves curl in colors of Fall.

There is a melancholy vibe 

this time of year--

I can feel it in the forced gaiety 

beginning to build 

as I swim through the crowd, rudderless,

like a paper boat adrift on the breeze,

and for small moments

I will succumb to the mass hypnosis

With wild berries clinging for support,

I observe the breeze, 

an unseen one act nearly farce

painstakingly scrape to leave a patch of stillness

uncovered for a short while,

my lips are stained with the thought of woe

prevalent

hauling one to a place where light cannot reach.

But I’ve had it with these subterranean homesick blues.

I shall emerge from these depths--

the mole in your midst 

burrowing to the sun.

The world is fraught with overt boogeymen.

They cannot frighten survivors

who’ve been to scarier places in their own minds 

than your sardonic smile could ever intimate. 

Let this be the end 

as air’s imbued with wet leaves and contemplation

is a swirl of mist;

a sliver of dark orange disseminating doldrums.

My faith akin to myriad of stones 

that become the shade of highway that lies 

unruffled behind them-- 

I witness the break of day and run forth to embrace.  

Springs and autumns flash by in an instant.

I make a wish and the universe 

rains its poetry down upon me.

To embrace both the darkness and

the light within us is the way of understanding.

November brings the winds of change.

I stand in the awe-filled silence

waiting to feel its sharp graze against my cheek.

I could watch them a while, this feeling that blends 

with fall foliage

for when struck with the right note of sobriety 

even the most dismal of life’s turns are rendered facile. 

The hour smiles and extends its hand to me,

as rain conjures a delicate pattern 

upon my skin 

and the winds of change blend with autumn zephyrs sighing. 

GOD BLESS

3 a.m. on a Sunday
and I'm tradin' sleep for a poem

thinking 'bout all the folks
who will don their Sunday finery
to hang out in a pew
with you and you and you
and you
still don't get it
that your soul is immortal
and not in need of savin'

but sure
I get it
it's a sense of comm
unity
we gather together to ask 
the Lord's blessing

and even though I'm fallin' apart
in my decrepitude
I'm good to go with all of that
don't feel the need
cuz a coupla peeps singing loudly off key
on either side of me
isn't exactly what I call "inspirational"

having said all that
I'll admit I've prayed before
but it's always been 
a white-knuckled
get me out of this freakin' jam
kinda thing 
and by god 
somehow...
somehow...

so let me say that if you don't feel 
a connection
with something larger than
your own ego
whatever you wanna call it
then I have to wonder about ya
as in how did you miss it?
(ah--your head was buried in your phone!)

goddamn

my pen is running out of ink
so I guess I'll close for now
but it's been nice chatting with you
and if you don't mind 
I'd rather not ruin my rep
as heathen in good standing
so let's just keep all this stuff
between you and me

God bless

GROUNDED

For Wild Friday at Poets United. Inspired by James Wright (1927-1980) and his poetry collection: Shall We Gather At The River.

A sense of place is a good thing.
A grounding thing.
A sense of time and place means
You remember things that
Have touched you deeply.

Deeply enough to lay 
The groundwork for a poem.

He was rooted in time and place
Like no one I ever read.
Out of the way places.
Lonely places. 

Daybreak beginning to fall on Idaho.

A discontinued railroad station
In Fargo, North Dakota.

The oldest whorehouse 
In Wheeling, West Virginia.

(No mention if they were the oldest whores.)

He understood the poet's mission 
was to take what has stirred 
(or maybe shaken) you,
And pay it forward.
Poignant and plain spoken, he came
from a time and a place
where some things still made sense.

Some still remember. 

LITTLE BOX

For Sanaa's prompt on Imaginary Garden With Real Toads --inspired by Pink's "Hurts 2B Human"

It's getting harder
to be human
when to leave my comment
on your poem
I must prove
I'm not a robot

No easy feat
these days
when it's come down to
a set of rules 
a set of laws
not divine laws
(and not your in-laws)
but decrees laid down
by mortals
often with dubious aims
and dark agendas
but by god now they're set in stone
and we will follow them
to the letter
as we chant

Send them back!
Send them back!

Just like what you want me
to prove that I'm not 
and though it walks
and talks
and seems almost like a person
the human element
(unfortunately)
could not be programmed in
so before you check 
that little box 
look deep inside your heart
take a moment 
and ask yourself...

Where is the proof  
that I'm not a robot?