The Last Day of the Year-A Poem

The last day of the year,
one of three hundred and sixty-five,
three hundred and sixty-fifth of three hundred and sixty five,
the last of of them,
the end to a long line of moments,
an end of a movement towards,
the beginning of the end,
an end to a beginning,
spinning rapidly in splitting seconds,
passing,
leaving a whole year behind,
remembering,
everything of three hundred and sixty four days,
moments,
pleasures,
pains,
excitements,
trials,
laughs,
tears,
moving and flowing,
out with the old,
in with the new,
the same,
TIME.

Fall Rain-A Poem

Light rain falls,
Like dust,
Early morning liquid residue,
Turning dry earth into,
Primeval particles bubble and ooze,
Reliving constant transfer,
Endothermic atoms rotate to spin,
All unnoticed,
All invisible,
All outside my window free.

A Beloved Country-A Vignette-Part 2

She could see the words behind his eyes and watched them bubble and girgle to the top and prematurely explode with steam as they spewed from his mouth; she did not listen to the words as they came, but followed them as motions and sounds that crawled and flowed over and into her ears and soothed her. They became incessant lullibies.
He tried to stop them, but still they came; a never ending deluge of all his errors exposed. Emotional lacerations in spoken form; cutting him each time anew. He hated the sounds of his voice and it made his own skin stretch, coil, tighten, and reconstrict; each time a little more quickly and strained, attempting with each movement to try and hide again only to realize refuge was always far away and he was alone again. All eyes were on him and they were bored. He didn't know why she stayed with him; if it were the other way around, he would have never showed up to begin with. He repulsed even himself; even his nightmares seemed to let him down. He felt he was swimming and all his words were swirling around him and he kept trying to paddle against them, but they wouldn't let him move at all, but they also wouldn't let him drown. He had long ago quick trying to fight against them, but was increasingly angry at his own apathy, but there was never a solution. All there was were the words and so they came; rushing and spilling all through the rooms and time and he was alone and he each syllable would look at him in his nervous, brown eyes and mock him with mounting repitition.....

A Beloved Country-A Vignette-Part 1

He was all lines of latitutde and longitude; a wasteland of humid shadows where primeval mists rose and fell bearing with it a scent of an unrealized history. All the lines seemed to be racing to some lethargically constructed equator made of imaginary silences and forced pauses of refracted fear in an absence of light; a complete and inner coldness that he could never shake, but that was not the whole of it. He was her beloved country; covered with the scars of a lifetime of wars and reoccuring battles in which only the characters changed, but the carnage did not and neither did the wounds. They were always deep and never fully healed; deep gashes of constant reconciliation gone awry. Never making a beginning out of an ending, only wounding and rewounding deeper and deeper until not even the abyss it was always becoming couldn't acknowledge its own true, outer edge; complete and utter depth where the cold traveled so quickly and so diligently that it exploded into quick flickerings of white heat.
She traced the lines back and forth, pressing deeply into the melanomal landscapes searching for where they began and wondering why they led to so many pockets of sorrow, but all the while he talked both with his mouth and his entire body; awkward rhythms as if his body were trying to divorce itself and its ability for movement from its joints and tissues.....

A New Idea for this Place

My wife suggested that an area of this or a facet of this blog should be new poems or stories that I write or am working on. So...from time to time, I am going to add bits and pieces of stories or poems here. I know it really doesn't matter since only my wife is really following this or reading this, but maybe someone else will stop by and read something written here and enjoy it and just maybe in turn be encouraged to write something themselves; isn't that what good art is suppose to do...encourage you to try it your self and propel you to be better. And isn't true writing something that you must get out of you even if you do not really want to. So, since none of these ideas will leave my mind, I will start putting them here and it will give me a place to showcase them instead of just having them hiding away in my little Moleskine journals. You have been warned. I hope you enjoy what you find written here.