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Illegal Dream
Dreams. Those soft touches in the night
of young love and days gone bye.
A beautiful face lingering in my mind,
warm inviting smiles reminding me of yesterday.
She stirred my love years ago,
when her soft little hand touched mine;
to dangerous to hold, yet irresistible.
I awake to see the dream in fleeting moments,
on Sundays for an hour or two.
A soft tender vision, still to young to hold.
Burning Warmth
She ignited a flame,
and I have respect for the fire.
A warm glow on her face,
and a blinding smile.
Child of light you stoke dark coals
and kindle memories long gone out.
Do I dare hold the heat?
I shall watch you dance
from the windows of a cautious soul.
To many years between us
tell me the blaze will burn for another,
but still I enjoy your warmth.
The God Part
I don’t believe in knowledge,
but I’ve forgotten why.
Information is lost in our age,
and used to find more ways to lie.
I don’t believe the internet,
when we’ve lost the link to truth.
Reality isn’t really virtual,
but these days the photograph’s the proof.
I don’t believe in globalization,
but this little world is bought and sold.
The charge for cash has got to change.
The balance to check is known by some.
I don’t believe love is really known today,
you know the other l-word
is what we should say.
I believe in God.
Fire In The Freezer
I felt the fire in the freezer.
The burn from the cubes
makes me stick to the edges
of who I could be.
Frost blurs my image on the walls,
and makes the near seem distant.
I shiver in reality, as cool flames
make my expectations numb.
Yes, I’ve felt the fire in the freezer,
and the chilling paradox
is such a strange sensation.
Redesigned
Broken pieces scattered across reality,
fragments of something that had an intention,
flung across the floor in frustration.
This life had form and function,
but was always a bit cracked and disturbed.
To be picked up and melted down;
thrown in the fire consuming.
You cool the molten fear,
into a redesigned vessel
planned for Your purpose.
Whispers
Listening to the wind
on a cloudy day,
whispers beckon me follow,
over the mountains of circumstances
to the peaks of bliss,
through the valleys of fears,
across the plains of memories,
to the coast of my character,
and beyond.
I will follow and breathe
the words You have spoken
through the ages;
a sigh echoing through the canyons,
of time.
Inner Voice
Oh storm arise in the wilderness of my soul.
Cover my horizons with darkness and let me hide.
You come, and my mind clouds over
with a spiritual mist.
Flashes of insight flicker in the distance,
a voice rumbles deep and low,
and I long to understand Your whispers;
one word of the paranormal,
spoken in this inner realm.
Darkened Windows
The glass in the windows,
is stained now in colors of tolerance.
Your light casts a dim glow on the floor
of subtle hues of acceptance,
and Your blazing glory is softened
in this new age of approval.
Blues and pinks inundate the image
and mingle with their own kind,
as the picture shifts into mediocrity.
Your light once shone
through Your likeness,
but now the windows of their souls,
are darkened with their own design.
Stuck In The Middle
Not quite on either page,
I hope to write between the lines,
but meaning may not rhyme
with the spiritual or the material.
I’m stuck in the middle,
sliding towards the binding
which may hold me together
long enough to smear an implication,
on the pages of time.
Meaning
The riddle rambles on,
and must have a conclusion.
But meaning twists and spins,
‘round the circle of circumstances.
Clues swirl and twirl
in the moments of the mundane,
and how I wish for a revelation,
or at least clairvoyance in the chaos.
Night brings solace
that I’m one day closer,
to the answer, that I must question.
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Meaning Is Found
Meaning is found in the keys.
Mystery is found in the phrases
that You and I must spin.
The conversation we share
often has a cryptic connotation
far beyond just double implication,
as You continue to speak
when I am finished.
Beyond understanding,
the importance of this call
is answered in the tone,
as lines travel into tomorrow.
Concealed In The Wreckage
I would rise and fall with the tide
before the storm of emotions
sank me in the depths of despair,
obscuring the light
in dark shades of melancholy.
Beneath the glittering surface,
hues of blue conceal the wreckage.
Down in the pit of the soul,
what was once useful holds a treasure,
waiting, to be found.
Burning Tree
A storm covered my horizon.
Your wind turned counter-clockwise,
and spun me ‘round to face the north,
and I waited, kneeling in this wilderness.
Flashes of insight flickered in the distance
as I sat in the darkness.
Then You struck near to my heart,
and ignited a tree behind me.
A figure glowed in the fire,
its light illuminating a path,
into tomorrow.
The Cup
The cup was passed ‘cross to me,
aged as it was, I dare not drink.
Liquid swirled and fell back down,
a beautiful color I did not deserve.
The fruit of Your labor,
which could not be passed on,
runs over the cup, as we remember.
Intoxicating, yet chilling;
covering all stains, left behind.
Marvel
You cannot be typed.
Your word leaves more questions
about the answer;
foolishness for me to say more.
You are really only found
between these lines;
inspiration in the inquiry
leaving me in a quandary.
My response, only,
words of wonder.
Flash For The Camera
Falling for the frame,
the metaphor is the image.
Raging desire frozen,
igniting a fire.
Flash for the camera.
Smear the film on the screen.
Bringing longing into focus;
bending love into lust.
Prism
My sphere fell out of significance
and shattered on the floor of reality.
Sprawling across my memories,
Your light refracted in the fragments,
and colored my relationships in a covenant.
To be made into Your prism
and color the globe above
the waves of emotion.
A few saved from the flood
of the world.
Ivy
The reaper is now in purgatory,
harvesting the useless weed,
only to watch it return
with a vengeance.
Slashing through mortal sins,
he winds his way up the staircase,
only to look back and see,
that he’s accomplished nothing.
Guilt grows along the fence
separating him from his neighbors;
collecting a crop of bitterness
and wasted years.
Metrolink Crossing
Speeding on the Blue-Line.
Metropolitan mayhem subdued in suburbia.
Sprawling diversity lumped between freeways.
Affluence in debt to poverty.
The Metro defying the momentum of stagnation.
Down the tracks we rail against anarchy.
Progress grinding over ties of love.
Sojourners stand at the stations of the cross
and wonder, when they are leaving.
Vanished
Swelling and crashing
upon the shore of reality,
only to draw recollections
back into the deep.
Surging upon the present
the deep rages upon my thoughts;
pulling moments into melancholy memories.
Time lost in remembrances
of footprints long since vanished.
Verse For You
You’re a poem
with symbols deep.
A metaphor with meaning profound.
Alliteration stuttering my mind.
A postmodern nursery rhyme.
You’re the edits I’ve deleted.
A pause,
keystrokes that can’t be typed.
Punctuation like an exclamation
with a point to prove.
Silence, found after the words.
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