The piper stood upon the hill and gave the pipes a blow, while I was sat upon my knees and played the pipe below.

The song of the burdened lover, The brief appearance of Lazarus, resurrecting the screams from us, The lungs that whisper nothings to the ear, And deal in foolish love. The skeletons of the six o’clock madness come raging out, Still wondering what you are thinking…

it pains me to think how you play games to move me that your words are meant hurt you’re only twisting your brain and adding to your own pain when you realize the things you have done it is a learned behavior like words committed…

Surfacing briefly like a cetacean, I breathe and go back under. Sometimes I would breach for fun, But not now. No. There are things in the deep dark That I must find. Things needed, for nourishment.   Half the brain sleeps, And then the other…

That big pan sitting on the stove means hugs and kisses and Grandma’s love. It may only be filled with potatoes, carrots, tomatoes, cabbage and other roots, but it was planned days ahead and just started because she was getting a visit from her Sweethearts!

They sang the virtues of the road less traveled and said you are free spirited, don’t let others tell you what to do, and I made my decision under a loving parasol, under warm guidance, but they did not warn me about the thickets of…

Withered from time I can trace every line Skin not as supple as when we were kids But then again, neither is mine There is a certain tone to her face That looks like a royal tan And lays on her cheeks like Ethiopian dust….

A good woman needn’ always be a mother. Merely, strong. With a will that is set like a mountain. She doesn’t have to be loud. Or standing in the spotlight. She only needs to be brave. Brave for herself. Since it isn’t about always running…

I love that sweet oblivion, That dark pool that I can sink into every night, Leaving behind what I can of this world, And diving deep into whatever parts of my own mind is available. Even though nightmares is a possibility, It’s worth it for…

HOUR TWELVE POEM # 12 24 HOUR POEM MARATHON A FRIEND NAMED PETE Pete a four leg friend is neat, He will do anything for a treat. Pete knows how to make his bed, Or rollover, then stand on his head. He will run forever…