Summer Daze Alone

A familiar air,

cloudless sky,

Listen to the sounds of a backyard,

tree trimmers, grass cutters, BBQ-ing neighbors,

listen to the children with innocent screams nearby.


He would understand,

their natural allegiance to the land

around them being an open playground,

his own did the same,

decades earlier,

on similar days,

a cloudless sky,

the sounds of summer daze.


Yet there is a familiar air,

perhaps we call it the resistance,

we felt it when twelve years old looking out the picture window,

a light rain, yet friends gathering,

and him,

staying inside,

pretending to not exist,

though experiencing all of the psychological trauma,

that associates our lives with the living.


He would find himself in that place again,


while the world outside embraced the summer skies,

his mind in a fog,

wondering about time, wondering where,

curious just why he falls into this mental cavern of


it is the time he remembers as a boy,

wondering in the moment,

not knowing beyond the day,

yet now, in the quiet midnight,

the same question remains.




I Wandered Home

I’ve come here often,

when I could remember fear,


when time seemed to stand still

I would look over the horizon,

picture running through fields as a child,

suddenly thrown into my teens,

those places I would weary my return.

I wonder about people

those I knew,

those I wished I might never know again,

I remember why it is I sometimes don’t really like people,

not everyone of course – I do love you.

I just

just when I might begin the next year,

I wonder sometimes why it is we continue to return to that place

we began to fear

when time allowed us to question ourselves,

when we had far too much energy to worry about who we

might have been, had become, wanted to seem,

where it was we all remember this might begin,

little flashbacks,

idioms of pain,

little moments of reckoning,

stir the anxiety in our mind,

while returning home,

where there is love, where we unwind.




we all do return after all,

it is sort of ironic really,

how quickly we begin to wonder again.

Tuesday Afternoon Lives

I was with the Moody Blues the other evening,

my apartment, a place I could create my own dreams,

I listened to their soul speaking to my fear,

they could soothe my mind, allow me so near

the places I really wanted to be,

where we could all be together,

with our idiosyncratic notions,

without feeling as if,

as if we might somehow need to,

find a different way to cry,

instead of seeking an outlet,

a reason why.

I was once a young man, walking through the forest,

when certain things could scare me, the snap of sound

off in the distance, always playful, always silly,

miles away from my own sense of balance,

trying to find my way,


I’m an older man today,

and I do indeed think life is strange,

when in the constancy of trying to understand,

we do lose ourselves in the mechanical wares

of understanding the energy within,

that human condition

that …


If I Pretend, Will They Too

We want that,

we wish and pray,

like to believe in that

we all would like it this way,

mild confusion, yet,

what steps in the

middle of our sudden circumstance,

suggests we’ve lost our

ability to freely take chance

with what we believed up until today.


When I grew up I realized

I had slowly lost my way,

when all of my years of trying to find

the solution toward that which I pray,

I cannot get over how deep the ravine

of indecision, has continued to fall.

I want to believe,

truly like you, we all do, somewhere inside,

want to recognize our human frailty

might be …

To be vulnerable in our world is to indicate weakness.

when playing on the school grounds,

I didn’t want to play,

and rather than be left alone,

I wanted you to ask me,


to play.

I didn’t want to figure it out years later,

with some bookend that appeared to imagine

what I felt inside.

Such bullshit to believe we cannot allow ourselves

to need,

instead we are asked to always amend,

our weakness so they can recommend

that answer that everyone else seems

already well ahead of the game of …

slipping slowly

unravel the dreams

to expose the fear,

that piece I believe

I seldom show

yet you might argue

is always there,

unmasked in artificial

burial grounds of

gin, liquor and bloody mary,

further less protected by

acts of random ignorance.

There is a sea of disparity that awaits my soul,

and when I arrive,

will the laughter remain,

or perhaps,

will all my anxieties, my intuitions of doom,

will every ideal that I ever believe

suddenly vanish in the misty shorelines

of deceit and depravity,

that arena of justice,

that seems so apparently there,

just waiting,


playing for the right moment,

when silent in the afternoon sunshine,

I suddenly feel like everything,

my world, theirs, and all of ours

instantaneous gratification,

bears its unruly head,

to suggest …

we all pretend.

Growing Up

When I was just a little boy

I’d wonder thoughts of a man

How soon beyond this simple toy

would life become a void if I ran

away, apart from all that I love

searching again for that above


As then my teens would turn on me

the reckoning of coming of age

yet, what if instead I might decree

a liberty, desire to remain. I’d wage

a war on the passions that imply

that now today has become my lie.


For when the winds of November call

seems always we are falling down.

The blues of winter become visible

while we seek shelter, she her gown

drapes the countryside with that layer

of frozen tears, an ominous arctic prayer


Seems yesterday I was that little kid

playing about without a worry in my mind

each morning, in bloom a new orchid

that gave solace with little need to remind

me of a future that would cause such pain

I’d rather wander slow than reach for gain.