At Seventeen Again

Years later, I returned, I didn’t ask,

I just recall the time I lived there,

alone in my own quiet space,

lumbering vacant emotions were near.

I glance around the hallways

see the faces exist alone together,

happy, smiling, crying, scared

defiant, denied, demands, devoid

of all the worry that years later,

their lives will wish might be a return

to that simple time when almost a child

we could all live again, at seventeen.


Let’s not forget the nightmare exists

when every morning in a mirror,

their souls rely upon one happy line,

a smile, a glance, a potential kiss,

a date to the prom, instead of alone,

let’s recall that every step they take,

through a sea of like minded souls

contains the trappings, the stirrings,

the mystique of the human condition.

When next you round a corner, take

heed in the eyes, they’re your tell,

the windows of worry that suggest

we’re all seventeen again in awhile.


I want to live my life as a whole

individual, one that might relish,

a summer morning, without worry

of where my food will come, where,

shelter will present itself in the middle

of a haunting night that reflects

the somber reality of my life, known.


Yet, at seventeen, I’m surrounded,

so why, where is it, I stand alone.


We Had This Time

When we might walk alone,

gathering thoughts while in motion,

when neither might be known

except a look, a glance, a notion.

Wish we might, now years later,

understand just how we could ask

for more time, ask for just another day,

when we seamless now today bask

in memory to hold our hands this way.

When my heart feels a pale instance

drawn within a soulful time we knew

our lives were simple and full of chance

when then we held the keys so new.

If I could ask you again without any repeal,

yesterday, to hold me again with open arms,

would you forgive my innocent appeal

could we then no longer feel such alarms.

Our adult hat tricks a mellow state of mind,

creates an urgency that lets go our release

while rather reminding ourselves of that bind

holds our conscience in place; quiet peace.

I remember when I felt like my world was you,

when then I could wait like no-one ever knew.

Sniffles, Standards, Security


We are here today, to lessen the burden,

with oval dots and rigorous minutiae

our lives in the cradle of society,

based upon computer printouts,

with hours of anxiety, sweat and fatigue,

we will measure your self-image

in just a few hours, brief analogy.

Recall your lives as you walk in the door,

put on the back-burner your self-worth,

until the final results are returned,

we cannot value ideals beyond a number.


Scanning the room, I see faces,

anticipation, fear, boredom, preoccupation,

all of the same yet miles away

from the world they live in,

today they belong to us,

the ovals and diagrams,

short paragraphs and hypotheses,

every aspect of our day,

will be tested today.


The quiet of the room, reveals short breathing,

heavy sighs and a nasal drip,

a sneeze a sniffle, a sneeze, nasal drip,

and everyone endures the lesson together,

like an open seasoned prison camp,

their lives dependent upon scan sheets

along with prompts written by human beings.


What is the measure of a testing day,

when outside the world crumbles away.

If Letting Go Were Methodical

The things we see,

we rely upon like a sea

of emotions flooding our shores,

waves that toss our lives across

a horizon of indifference.

Yet why so important than if in one sweep

of fast moving passion,

our lives than become scrutiny,

theirs, not ours, them, the people,

outside of our comfort zone.

Those are the enigmas we’d rather not have to deal with


or any day for that matter,

but the immediacy is clear.

We have to suggest a methodical manner

toward finding a respectful attitude,

one that includes yet lets us depart

from all interactions with the pools,

schools of jelly fish together remain an obscure

delight, a visual procession of beauty,

yet one alone,

distant in the murky sea of illusion,

that perhaps might indicate,

a haunting reality follows every hope and dream

toward letting go,

for their beauty always remains near.

When Living Hell Arose


I know you spoke to me the other day,

you felt like this was truly a living Hell,

to endure your pain in such a simple way

left alone without a sympathetic tell.

When everytime another matter claimed

your state of mind would wallow again

yet nowhere could you feel so maimed

as in Baltimore’s expressed raging disdain.


A conversation occurred the other day,

when people took the streets to battle

their wits run amok with mass decay

allows society’s increasing anger rattle

the cages of our living neighborhood,

storefronts with the steel reinforcement

still burn now, will burn, become unglued

our living hell is worse tonight than meant.


I’ll say a prayer to the non-praying soul

whose tears are golden in the fiery glow

I’ll see the fear in a child’s world less whole

when innocence already lost, its goal

slowly by the wayside, their life defines

a common thread, that hope in song

defends the pain exists in a line

of fire, far lethal today with this wrong.


In looting, fire, in bricks rash thrown

our peace of heaven forever unknown

Been Away Again

Just yesterday I realized

I needed to come home again,

I have been away for such a long time,

I travel alone, yet the miles are forever.

Remember that time you asked why,

I cried in front of everyone then,

I laughed afterward when alone

I could easily go away, gone again.

While the skies begin to slowly green

I watch the world around me

I see them all living their lives,

I wonder if they’d even recognize …

I might need to go away then, again,

that’s when soon the departure began.

Good Night Wordsmith

The clock seeks the hour to change the day,

yet left here alone in the repose of hours gone by,

remind me of this time again,

this (winter) of discontent,

that somewhere in our universe

there were the start,

the repeat,

the accentuation,

of words,

that wordsmith,

the Bard might celebrate

with a pint,

unknowing he would be


in study and emulation

in rhythm and human condition

to raise an eyebrow upon

every role we adventure,

centuries later.