Under a Cheshire Moon

We’re all quite mad here,
Under a Cheshire moon.
There’s too much confusion,
Mind drowning out in tune?
Up too late accomplishing little,
Gyrating ‘round the words.
Laziness, corporeal madness,
Brain splitting into thirds.
Stacked ideas in a deck of cards,
You can’t build a house, they say!
But arrogantly, I acquiesce,
What peace can be won in play?

The Cycle


The hands move gracefully around the numbered face.

Slivers of light break violently into existence.

Shapes move in patterns barely recognizable.

Sensory input floods the soul.

Words form, dreams solidify, passions populate the mind space.


The mind is thrust forth into thought perpetually creating relationships.

Clarity follows.

Learning, always learning, new ideas combine with old.

Creativity abounds.

The world and all the vast libraries of textures, smells, tastes, sounds and visions are judged, dreamed and adapted.

Knowledge is gained and parsed; it becomes religion, faith in understanding.

Mingling experiences test the mind, tempt the heart and guide the spirit.

The mind begins to comprehend, to understand, to believe.

First words and lucid dreams are always full and vibrant.

Violently tumbling, first down and finally out.

Lights pierce the fabric of existence finding purchase in the darkness.

Tick, Tock, Always.


Echoes of November (Originally Published July 2010 in “From the Well House”)

When the dark night falls ashen on the curtails of our dreams,
It is with simplified understanding of the haste in which we live.
What is this furious passion, quick and object-oriented,
Where do we draw the line between the needs of self and obligation to give?

In these sighing nights and the moments before we sleep,
We cannot relax, no way to drink in the day and seek reprieve.
You’re never too old, and it’s never too late,
No matter what you say or in your mind, silently deceive.

The dreams you have, these words you speak, these thoughts in your mind,
The sweet abandon of a summer lost, and the wayward souls of the dearly departed.
During what restless un-slumber do we saunter through this life unfulfilled,
Sleep walking, dreaming, toiling, and never taking the time, life never started.

You choose these paths among the rows of books and cobwebs in your mind,
You choose whether or not to believe that you can find room in your planetary stay.
It’s never that you’re too old, and it’s never too late,
There’s fear in your heart and dreams in your face, passed over for just one more day.

The world begs and beckons us onward, further, frightened for loss of status quo,
We build and burn, collect and squander, develop and undo, dream and lack of changing will.
The path to wealth is paved in almost certain disappointment, gleaned free of dreams,
As life winds forward into a career and dream, did you follow those reasons or ignore them still?

Your life, and your sons and daughters now, wavering still on the brink of repetition,
Failing to acknowledge the mistakes of a life lived with supposed impunity to your dreams.
You heart tells you that it’s getting old, and you mind tells you as yet… it’s not too late,
You keep life busy, full of soccer games and laborious work, all while your inner child screams.

The dawning morning of a later life, the weakness of brittle bone and sullen thought,
The children of yours, children no longer, they continue the toiling cycle and so it goes.
The world has become smaller now, able to travel less day by day, muscles weak and harsh,
The short glimmers of the hope of childhood dreams forgotten amidst the aging echoes.

Your dusk is coming soon and darkness sweeps across the landscape of your life,
Your body weakened and unable, both laboriously and indignant, falls silently to bed,
It’s absolutely now, that you’re too old, you now know, that it’s too late.
Your heart is no longer crying, no there’s no energy for that, the futile loss of the dead.

The silence of the night stirs the sullen ash of lives gone by burned brightly,
Brightly in haste and toil, demanded and strongly used, without regard to self.
These are the passions of the world, the objectivity or lack thereof, of our nature,
Where truly all our hopes and dreams, life ambitions, only abide on the dark empty shelf.

Bar Stool Damnation

Murmurs rise to levels, screamed.
In a room full of untended dreams,
The television rattles out useless news.
While patrons discuss whom angered whom.

Time passes in return, wasted.
Clouds shuffle lazily across the sky,
Carrying the hope of today away,
Engrossed in drink and shallow words.

Don’t have time, none at all, pursued.
Time budgeted, monopolized, and pushed away,
Maybe another day, maybe tomorrow, tonight,
Dream dusty maligned with rusted disrepair.

Refuse dreams, buried in planning, thoughtfully.
Seeking hope, lost in their own way,
Never started, never dared, why?
Because life is standing, between here and there.