Ode To Jackson Pollack


Words spoken, misunderstood, hopeless treasures in the mind somehow unkind. Some of us are pretty straight, never to falter or bend. Pistons in motion with the power releasing. Heat created a thrill that’s worth the ride so stop dreaming. With the throttle, full out, and time to spare. You are all show, and no go when you offer your surface – your visible. Unexpressed timeless words part of the rhyme. Caught by the breeze, lost, never found. The spoken word.

The inside is never, no never to be seen. The sands of time draining away. And now in my fretful years and off to Coventry I’m sent. One sunset at a time. Leaves turning, falling. Watch there are so many reasons yet none to explain. The questions are deep within the depths of my soul. What season will they ever change? For here is the Orwellian spiritual world. And in this very space other stand slightly saddened. The passions within my breast are vibrating and screaming. Are they apart of or are they the whole? Dizzy from the spiral past, from which the arc angel fell. Gliding on the air in the moment.

Who you are is more so than what you are. Anything man has written about our consciousness; our purpose in this realm exists but he’s probably wrong most of the time. But if you can think and reason a little you’ll know that thinking it lots of fun. The best I had in a while. Seems the suns going down in style. Colors of every shade. Flowing clouds blanketing the sky. Drifting through wind storms leave your fears behind, don’t overreach yourself.

Now I may not know all possibilities. My navigation, my compassing, my mapping full of hope and desire, but wrong. My faith hoping, sinking. Marking this day. I couldn’t forget no matter how I tried, Pandora. Music to my ears, listening to the Stone, Nirvana, and songs like Tears Without Fears. When I put the sound up my frustrations disappear and I find myself dreaming. Does it matter. Creativity trumps creations. Curiosity trumps all.

The end…


Home Sweet Home


No more Nurses, no more Docs.

No more eating by clock.

No more Clergy passing by

Waiting for me to die.

No more food, so damn plain.

I threw most down the drain.

No more roommate

With their t.v. roaring.

And their gassing and their snoring.

They said go home, I guess it’s time.

Perhaps I needed one more day

And any fear would go away.

But if I stayed then who would pay,

AETNA said you’re on your way.

I’m not mad, I know it’s best,

To be at home, with love and rest.

And if they wrong,

And I get real sick,

I’ll get my lawyer – real, real, quick.

Home Cookin!!


Oh boy, I just can’t wait,

To sit in my kitchen and salivate.

After eating that hospital slop,

And sometimes puking – hey, get a mop!

I almost forgot that food had a taste,

All food seemed made with hospital waste!

All I wanted was something edible.

Is that a request so incredible?

A little sugar, a little spice,

Some lox and eggs would be so nice.

But all that came was low fat jello,

No egg white, just the yellow.

Maybe there’s more to my cure,

But I’ve had it with their plat du jour.

They tried to fool us with foreign names.

But with food, I don’t play games.

I know that lamb is not yet mutton

I can’t be fooled by crusted cotton.

I know they fed outdated Spam

I’m an expert on Green Eggs and Ham.

But now I’m home and my fridge is loaded,

I can eat at will, until I’m bloated.

I can fill my gut with fat and lean,

And every item in between.

I can start my day with hot sausage and fries,

And end my night with Entemanns pies.

I can pour on the spices till my mouth burns bright

So I’ll suffer heart burn throughout the night.

Bacon, shrimp, hot-dogs, and spaghetti,

Home cooking, home cookin, I feel better already.

And We Stopped Talking


When you found yourself, we stopped talking.

When I showed myself, we stopped talking.

When you felt your needs, we stopped talking.

When I showed your fears, we stopped talking.

Expectations, guilt, suspicion, and we stopped talking.


Tell me,

That’s alright.

Tell me,

It’s okay.

Tell me,

Forget it.

Tell me,

It doesn’t matter.

Tell me,

You won’t understand.

Tell me,

You don’t care.

Tell me,

I CAN’T!!!


Perhaps we never talked.

Perhaps I told and you listened.

There are no second chances.

You talk to others now, and they listen.

It’s their chance to know.

What I know is forever and complete.

And you will never know me.

I always told – we never talked.


I despair to know that some do talk.

They say they do, I hope not.

If there is a way, don’t tell me.

There are no second chances.


Will he or won’t he

She thought day after day.

Marriage was so near, yet so far away.

Autumn fell to winter then

Spring burst in the air.

Their love was still burning

But why was there still fear.

To those who went before them

Such fear is not unique.

To love is very simple

To marry is to seek,

A lover and perhaps a friend

A partner who can pretend

To show no pain despite the ache,

And long for rest yet stay awake.

To make a vow, and take an oath

To be just one, but cherish both.



Jones Beach Blues



GW Bridge is kinda slow.
Only place the car can go.
Three dollar toll for just one mile.
Toll collectress just can’t smile.
I Got The Jones Beach Blues

Whitestone or the Throgs Neck bridge
Which span will it be.
Two bucks,twenty -five, no difference to me.
I Got the Jones Beach Blues.

We’re doing 60 for one-half mile.
Then 55 for quite a while.
The cars begin to rubber neck.
A smokey and a caddy wreck.
I Got the Jones Beach Blues.

Down the road we travel on,
N.Y. cities’ come and gone.
The L.I.E. is up ahead.
We rap on about the “Dead”.
I Got the Jones Beach Blues.

All those cars just full of meat.
To the beach to beat the heat.
The L.I.E.’s a parking lot,
Just saw a Vette a-smoking pot.
I Got the Jones Beach Blues.

The sign reads Jones Beach on the right.
Take the Meadowbrook, we’re both uptight.
The drives been long and mighty hot.
Ya gotta love the beach alot.
I Got the Jones Beach Blues.

Three – fifty more and the ocean’s mine.
That will leave us just a dime.
I Got the Jones Beach Blues.

We rip on thru the toll booth lite,
Lot # 4 – its outta sight.
The crowd is huge – the beach is packed.
Boxes boom – Hey grease my back!
I Got the Jones Beach Blues.

We get some rays – a coke and beer.
Our Jones Beach day until next year.
I Got the Jones Beach Blues.


And Then I Smile

A melody, a meringue dancer, collage peppers, elbow macaroni with gruyere, or a glass of Gallo Hearty Burgundy, and the tears gather behind my eyes.

Our garden, your stock of silks, wool’s, bobbins and Vogue Patterns.

All provoke images of your face. Images that are rarely complete yet totally consuming.

The bird feeder, the marauding squirrels, and the wall of photos all command your presence.

Our meals are yours – your taste, your mouth and your style.

Your clothes fill the dresser and closet, and I smell them. I remember your smell.

How I love your smell, and the incredible softness of your skin.

The tears gather just behind my eyes.

And France is you. And music and your voice and your laugh bring tears to my eyes.

But only for me to feel and no one to see.

The tears pool and search for release. They flow back and forth behind my eyes.

And then…and then I smile. I don’t see you, but I feel you, and I smile.

My tears leave the back of my eyes and I smile.