Ramblings of a Madman

his fault, we don’t understand
talks of quirks, quarks, and quasars
ramblings of a madman

indecipherable shorthand
piano music for guitars
his fault, we don’t understand

dancing with the sandman
recalls in his memoirs
ramblings of a madman

from society he is banned
for his safety and for ours
his fault, we don’t understand

claims I am the spaceman
seen the heavens, traveled the stars
ramblings of a madman

his mind considered a wasteland
his writings fill bell jars
his fault, we don’t understand
ramblings of a madman

Mornings

A spring or summer day, I can’t remember for sure. The sun hasn’t been up long, no curtains on the windows, morning light gently touching us with a hint of warmth. A slight breeze makes the warm sheets feel especially good against my skin, they smell fresh, clean, hopeful. As she lays beside me not yet awake, I look at her, the gentle flows of her body, so peaceful. Jealous she is still able to sleep, yet thankful I get to watch. These mornings I think about the future, about all the mornings we’ll awake like this. Those mornings, now just memories.

Hank La Lloyd

a dingy tied to a dock
appears neglected
unused

I call him Hank
short for Henry
seems to fit

engine is stubborn
puts up a fight
he’s unfazed

marlboro red
steely dan
gets to work

finally a sputter
long pull from a silver can
spent butt now fish food

out into the harbor
six pack passenger
he’s home.

Sunglasses day

Earlier this year I took a creative writing class, I've decided to finally share a few of my pieces from that class. On Mondays for the next few weeks I will be posting a new piece. Here is the first piece. Please be gentle. Enjoy.



A Sunglasses Day


A long day, collapsing on the couch, exhausted, starving, I can’t remember if I had lunch. I weigh my options, all of them involve movement, none satisfactory. She’s picking one up from ballet, the other from a friend’s, they’ve surely eaten, waiting isn’t going to solve my problem. If it were the fifties, she would have greeted me at the door, my meal warming in the oven, if not, tomorrow would be a sunglasses day. They’re home, bounding through the door, showing me toys from the happy meals they had for dinner, my stomach eating itself at the smell of salt and grease emanating from the plastic figurines. Now off to bed, she follows to tuck them in. Again I sit alone, still hungry.