The Art of Telling Lies

This is a given title poem that I think can be about any relationship. Friend, lover, politician (I have a better one for that posting tomorrow).

The Art of Telling Lies

lie to me, there is an
art to the decay on your
expendable soul

blush behind your hand
twist- wring out
your finger-tips

squeeze the lie from
washcloth knuckles-
flexible-malleable-clean.

snap the bones of your spine
in place, hold the weight
of the lie on your tongue.

candy coated promises sweet
poison on taste buds
rot your breath,
pull the veneers- smile-

pockmarks plague the
perfectly polished
mask you wear

The Reluctant Prince

This is a given title poem that echoes the price of power. The imagery is very similar to all of the Game of Thrones scenes… maybe.

The Reluctant Prince

broken bodies lay
battered around the

stone rooms of
a carpeted castle

no sounds or breath
no choking gasps of

life shudder through
those husks

a wooden chair tilts
against the wall,

the surface worn down
memories of feasts

death surrounds her,
faces, familiar ghosts

silenced laughter, frozen
tears, a crippling crown

slopes across her brow
red, stained, hands

tattered, silk, dress
what Prince would

want this?

Danger’s Edge

This is a given title poem about an adrenaline junkie. I am certain if I had the choice, the guts, the access and the money, I would be doing all of this.

Danger’s Edge

Where is that bit of time between one breath? Where it holds itself inside the lungs? Where it wonders if it’s a scream or a sigh that will pass the lips of that mouth.

To see what danger looks like.

Who’s edge is traveled? Who’s step is the last and the other the first? Who’s walking through the marsh, to reach the other side?

To see what danger looks like.

Why is a brush of ink on paper some catastrophic choice that catapults a greater thing into an abyss of chaos? Why are these the choices?

To see what danger looks like.

How is danger’s edge that place sought and pushed up against? How is this choice here? How is this choice now?

To see what danger looks like.

When the broken smile of the inner child is formed by the glaring truth that the world isn’t fair even when the she does her best not to fail.

The edge of danger, invites us to look, and we stare, while the world hold’s it’s breath for the first and last step, the brush of ink, the choice, and a broken smile of victory and defeat.

Broken Promise

This is a given title poem where the cheating isn’t so well hidden. I seem to think relationships aren’t so fantastic… I guess it’s all about perspective.

Broken Promise

ash stains his lips
chewing gum cover-up,
minty fresh, isn’t enough.

cloth catches that stink
febreeze, can’t wash off
the stench stained collar

of a broken promise and
a vice he’ll never give up

The Witch Next Door

This was a given title poem which I used to portray a child’s perspective of how a mother may react when she suspects that the next door neighbor is sleeping with her husband.

The Witch Next Door

her hair is not tangled,
her nails are not mangled

her breath does not stink
from toads she should eat

her teeth are not crooked
her skin is not rotten

she does not cackle
nor taunt me with rattles

she does not ply us with candy or
curse us with brandy in a glass

she’s a nice lady, named Ms. Nog.
there is no pot, just a kettle,

Ms. Nog makes tea, cucumber sandwiches, and
has nice word for everyone she knows.

she has one annoying bird, two furry cats,
and a dog that licks my fingers with love.

Why is it that whenever I come home
my mother asks me,
“How is the witch next door?”

Call me Never

This was a given title piece, inspired by Taylor Swift’s song “We are never getting back together.” I wrote this a few years ago. Just wanted to re-post.

Call me never

we aren’t ever, ever, ever
forgetting your cut & run shtick
you cad, Call me never

loose my number listed under
lost relationships
we aren’t ever, ever, ever

talking about it, or her
punch-block-button-breakup
you player, Call me never

a broken record, a sad singer
songwriter- listen up- wake up
we aren’t ever, ever, ever

meeting the local bartender
to order latte screw-ups
you stalker, call me never

trash that desktop year
anniversary, ground pulp
you dick, call me never
we aren’t ever, ever, ever

The Dark Well & The Salon

There is always some hither to person, who is a proficient speaker, that narrates his opinions on the news or sports of the week. His entire conversation, unmitigated in its flow, as if the words were as prolific as the bartender’s hand on a Sunday night.

The audience, within hearing distance of his saintly tongue, garnered no conversation while those opinions of his were bellowed amongst the wooden pillars and slot machines of the “Dark Well” being the name of the institution.

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