To slip into that last morning dawn’s early light

We laid there, our souls facing the rising sun,
To feel those rays, into our bodies,
Into our minds,
To feel its grace,
The dying inside of us,
Wanted out,
But could not be free,
As the meat survived.

We wept in memories,
Of those who had gone before,
Way too soon,
Wept the mourners at Jerry’s wake,
He died of cancer at 23.
Who really wants to live forever,
In some never ending horror fever dream?
Lost loves,
To God’s embrace they say,
Screw God, give them back to me!

A DIRE NEED FOR ACID RAIN: A POEM

I don’t want to feel the shame,
To feel the same,
Don’t want to be in pain,
Ashamed,
Inside myself,
Feeling rage,
Against the stage,
Trying to stop the wars,
Inside myself,
A memory,
Of whispers,
A sigh,
In that rain,
Against the broken showers,
In a tower,
A nightmare,
Of dancing metal frames.

I held your face,
In my hands,
A dream of breathing shallow,
It was my decision,
Oh how I kill myself for it,
To pull that plug,
My dear love,
To live with that decision,
I fell to pieces,
That unholy day.

MOCKINGBIRDS LIE: An Introduction to a Main Character.

Here in the tall willows, away from the eyes, the mockingbirds dare lie, they whisper in tunes, a hi, a hi.

Cindy laid in the tall grass, holding her doll, wishing it was real or this whole life was a dream.

Her brother had been killed in a war, Vietnam, her mother had cried there in the kitchen.

Cindy tried not to cry as she ran out of the kitchen, the tears were beginning to fly.

It wasn’t fair.

He was only 19.

He had told her he would come home alive.

He promised.

He lied.

There he laid, in that box, a shell, a corpse.

Cindy didn’t want to go to his funeral.

But she did.

Mother needed her support.

She had told Cindy that as Cindy sat in the back seat of the car, heading to the funeral home.

A flag covered the casket as it sat there, waiting to be lowered into the grave.

Mother never spoke of it again.

Cindy would hear her late at night, crying, for many years.

“I’ll be okay!” she told Cindy as she prepared to leave for her college.

Cindy got a call from her town’s sheriff, her mother decided to join Cindy’s brother by overdosing on sleeping pills and alcohol.

Another head stone to wait.

Cindy didn’t cry.

She shook friends’ hands at the wake.

“She was a good woman, she was strong…”

Cindy hated it, standing there, pretending her mother was strong.

Cindy was the last of the tribe, didn’t want to be, her father died before she was three.

She shut down, closed up, lied, said she was okay, Mother was with God and Cindy’s brother, but she wasn’t fine.

Mother lied.

Everyone dies.

She sat in the lonely quiet home, sitting on the floor, playing with that same doll, wishing she was real.

Was this life?

Just to lie, “I’m okay, don’t worry about me!”?

Cindy went to bed, to dream of a better time.

1684,
Number on the door,
Wine,
Drunk like water,
To drive that madness away,
Angry young men,
Waiting for the end,
A somber moment,
Oh drifting softly by,
To see,
That sea,
Oh hairy lies,
To feel alive,
In cosmic lights,
Drifting through angels,
Alive,
Oh beauty,
Oh father,
Oh mother,
Dying
On the vine,
A herald,
To hear,
A final sigh,
Angry young fucks,
Crying in the night,
Blasphemy,
In midnight hour,
To revel,
In made up words,
Of life,
Lies,
And simple things!

HIGH: A Poem

I laid there,
Melting there into the carpet,
A dream like trance,
A nightmare in fantasy land,
I felt the world spinning around me,
Chaos,
Madness,
Jesus was there,
Melting into Heaven’s gate with me,
We were souls,
Drifting through time and space.

The light began to fade,
I still thought I was a shrimp,
In a stormy sea,
Being eaten by Moby Dick,
Oh Henry,
My Henry,
Did you see the dying of the light?
Margie died,
Last night,
Cancer took her brain,
She was only 45.

I tried to stand,
But fell back to my knees,
Wasn’t a prayer I uttered from my dry lips,
Cursed be to any God,
As Jesus swore the same,
We’d never die again!

A Practice in Life: A Random Poem

Ice cold beer,
What the fuck are we doing here?
Mother is dying, somewhere,
Maybe father knows where?

Trumpets blues,
Harvard and 9th,
Jesus died for somebody’s sin,
Who here is revealing sins?

July 12th,
World is pulling apart,
Reaching for the top,
While sinking to the bottom.
We were standing there,
Waiting for a bus,
Never comes,
Doesn’t say much,
For our transportation!

Rust,
Lost in trust,
Who here has a buck?

Gives a fuck?

Balloons falling through the waterfall,
We cannot see the bottom,
Trust faith?
Die before you hit the floor.

Type,
Type,
Words on the screen,
Jesus,
Who sees?
Who hears?
The blind lead the dead.

A GOOD DAY: Story about life and how it ends.

In a few years, I would be dead, a memory in some data bank, possibly even erased, to make room for those still alive.

The sky was gray; overcast, as I walked the two miles from my house to the beach, the wind hitting my face hard.

“Lyle?” a voice crept from my memories; July 12th, two years, maybe three years ago, I was seventeen, Aunt Tilda was dying; I couldn’t see her then, there at the hospital.

My mother was dying too, both of cancer. I tried to see them but I couldn’t, I was sick, the flu, I think, my father let me peek at them through the window of their rooms. Both laughed and waved.

I waved back.

When I die, I hope there is someone there to wave at me; a small glimmer of hope before the end.

I wrote a letter to mother; father gave it to her, please come home, I will make Chester pudding for you and father.

She never came home; died on the 20th of July.

Aunt Tilda on the 21st.

I sat there on the beach.

I did not think about death as the waves crashed to the shore.

I thought about life.

It was a good day.

Fly: A POEM

We flew,
To touch the sky,
To go where no one could touch us,
To bring us down,
To fly,
To sing,
Upon gilded wings,
We flew,
To find ourselves,
Among the clouds,
We saw,
The Heaven’s angels,
Singing to us,
As our wings brought us,
To that bliss,
Among the clouds,
So high above,
To softly drift,
Our life was ours,
To do as we wished,
To fly,
Dear ones,
To fly.

Rules of Love – A poem – inspired by song lyrics

Why do some loves fade away,
And others grow intense?
Why do some fools,
Who fall in love,
Fall from grace,
While others,
Love beyond the grave?

Somewhere in that book of love,
Please tell me why,
Oh dearly why,
These rules of love,
So I may feel that dear embrace!

FEAR AND LOATHING IN A MIDWESTERN CHURCH – A NEW SERIES – MAYBE – OR JUST A ONE SHOT

Sunday March 6th, 2022 (originally written) PART ONE

Run Jesus! Them peeps wanna eatcha? Inside my head as I sat in church with my lady love; Amber.

It was a social project gone wrong.

There were bats here, buzzing around me, “My name is babble babble fart face!”

It was madness.

The rest of the Church sat and stared at me, wondering why I was there.

Didn’t they see the bats flying overhead?

We were led into the worship.

Oh father in Holy Rome please forgive me for forsaking Catholic Jesus for Methodists Jesus.

It’ll never happen again.

They tried to hand me some crackers, a grape in a baggie. I knew a Fed set up, I’ve seen Good Fellas.

I blacked out at Good morning.

This was too much to handle.

The red tail donkey was speaking.

No one else seemed shock.

But apparently, they had never seen a grown man scream out “waffles! I was promised waffles!”

And kids that’s why we can never go back to Holy Pine Resin, in Puddle Rock, South Dakota!!

Sunday March 6th, 2022 (originally written) PART TWO

Photo by Alena Darmel on Pexels.com

The best time to attend church is just when “the meds” are kicking in. As the ghouls begin to feast on the body and blood of their savior, you begin to realize that the world is going to be okay.

The pastor begins to compare her being lost with her husband for 6 hours up in the woods to that of Jesus, who is literally being devoured by his followers.

I say amen as the teleprompter tells us.

The pastor is reading a script the entire time.

I begin to think I need more meds.

The dare to be weird crowd are sitting across the aisle.

“Hi my name is Dave, it sure is nice weather we’re having, right?”

I smile, nod, say something, maybe yes, I don’t know, my mouth isn’t moving, the natives know, I’m high, oh Jesus, I’m high as a kite right now.

Maybe I’m not.

Maybe I just think I’m high.

It’s all an illusion, put together by Hollywood, to make me want to take more medicine.

The pastor is beginning a new scene.

It’s Lent. Or The Time of The Gathering, there can be only one. PRINCES OF THE UNIVERSE begins to play. Swords clash. The end of society inside my head.

Pastor is still reading a script.

She doesn’t want to forget a thing I guess.

People are opening their sandwich bag with Jesus’ body and blood.

I must have missed something.

I say amen twice.

Everyone turns to look.

I turn too.

Damn sinner, who said that?

We sing a hymn. Nearer to thee. I sing loudly. Off key. Someone sighs sadly. We all say amen.

At the end, there are no pancakes. I sadly leave. “At my church back east, we get pancakes!” Im asked to never attend again. An Easter miracle indeed.