Our books are more important than our looks
Greater appeal in the appearance of our shelves
For I need more than rouge-disguised hooks
After all, through time our souls advocate for themselves
Our Books Are More Important Than Our Looks
great
Feeling A Great Need To Create
Feeling a great need to create
This is a crazy world today
When will we ever thrive when
We don’t remember what we say
Hidden slowly in your dreams
Reality hinders our solutions
Time tocks against us now
Feeling abstract absolution
I’ll Allow You Space To Grow Older Gracefully
I’ll allow you space to grow older gracefully
You are free to live however feels just right
I’m not one to interfere nor infringe
Just remember me before you blow out the lights
Let us not count, pluck nor dye the grey hairs
I’m going to love you long after life permits
Our souls commingling in the afterlife
With all that said, I’ll still think you have great tits
Higher Expectations
Higher expectations
From your great admirers
Nothing so common
Reflecting upon the enquirer
Knowing a grand entrance
Stepping politely in this place
Our mutual acquaintance
Dropping your secret rimmed in lace
How To Create An Individuality
How to create an individuality
Yet, contribute to society as a whole
Without falling to the socialist ideal
& abandoning your capitalistic soul
I believe in the American experiment
A dream that is & could be great
In fact, I’ve sworn to defend it forever
Duty, honor & a complicated fate
A Finger To My Lips
A finger to my lips
Fixated on your secrets encased
Knowing the enchanting stories
You’re upon what fairytales are based
Remaining silent with restraint
For that is your required desire
Locked into your heavenly eyes
Nothing greater than stoking your primal fire
It Is Not A Sin
It is not a sin, no matter what they say
For love triumph over all — beyond how we explain
For truth is greater than words
Thus loyalty & devotion shall forever remain
I’m not worried what the preacher says
For he doesn’t understand our match
Too ancient to grasp our harmonization
He has his own itch he can’t scratch
All that matters is how we feel inside
True love is not a notion they can reject
Our bodies & souls eternally intertwined
Upon a higher calling our passion connects
Running My Fingers Upon The Smooth Surface
Running my fingers upon the smooth surface
Keeping them always against the grain
I know my way through the Redwoods
They’re my protection against the dark stains
Born in the high desert among the cacti
Faint echoes from mission bells of yore
Great things come from fools with faith
Misguided souls remain thirsty for more
Stubborn & obstinate as hardwood
Needing my love to keep from being truculent
Even though our touch doesn’t always soften conditions
Nevertheless, she is still my favorite succulent
Oh, Where Does Our Journey End
Oh, where does our journey end
Or begin, as it so often might seem
Futile attempts to erase the past
The unknown details of our dreams
The open road panders to a false escape
The mere opportunity to rewrite a sojourn
Jesus perambulating with Uncle Walt
Debating the path; perchance to learn
Shaky prospects in apportioned time
Manifest destiny teases Ginsburg & Kerouac
Further roads leading to ornate wisdom
& we keep it concealed out in the back
Thoreau mocking society with his solitude
Knowing alone is the greatest we could ever be
Thoughts come to us in gentle waves
That perhaps our visions should become the sea
A reinterpretation of westward expansion
Route 66 cross-contaminating Highway 61
All roads have never led us home
Emily tempting Death with her life left undone
The growing wisdom of our consumed space
Emerson’s penning pre-revolutionary blues
Introducing our souls to unrefined grace
The Good Lord providing Her unfiltered muse
Feeble humanity; lost across the tracks
Original sin that we’ve taken on the chin
Sifting thought; we might be welcomed again
But knock off the Devil’s dust before you come in
You Don’t See It
You don’t see it
The boys not getting enough sleep
Those who have abandoned their homes
Keeping watch over the watery deep
You don’t see it
Those who dream of something better
Youth sacrificing blindly
Riding the tide, salt spray getting wetter
You don’t see it
Loading sea bags in early morning hours
Walking the gangplank in the face of fear
Trusting their lives to a Greater Power
I Wish To Whisper Elegant Tales
I wish to whisper elegant tales
They’ll allow you to follow me
Through the transfers of light
These are moments you’ll be free
I know you have never believed
In what I forever sought & dreamed
We could have been truly great
You always wanted better it seemed
Trembling Coins In My Pocket
Trembling coins in my pocket
A disconnect in time; rapidly repulse
Our words twisted soon after spoken
Inferiority complex became our natural impulse
But we knew life could be far greater
If we could only escape our own fates
Get out of our own disturbed minds
& embrace the love that patiently awaits
These Broken & Delayed Dreams
These broken & delayed dreams
Electric toothbrushes that constantly hum
A pocketful of change
& girls with eyes so pretty it makes me dumb
I’m not one to make a great scene
Yet I’m your average middle-aged guy
Not counted among the mundane
I couldn’t be normal, even if I tried
So we’re all stuck in this spinning limbo
A world with mixed up priorities & hate
I’m confused by all this wasted time
One of these days the hourglass will cease to rotate
So, I’m probably going to be late for work
For my beautiful woman resides in this bed
I could be responsible & get there on time
But I’m always going to choose to love instead
Image by Claudio_Scott from Pixabay
Watching The Horizon
Watching the horizon
Driving on Beach Blvd
When you’re down here
Life isn’t nearly as hard
A steaming cup of coffee
As the sunrise grows
Today will be great
But who really knows
There Are Many Fancy Writers
There are many fancy writers
Those who are great, they’ve decided
Elegant illustrations & plunging necklines
But hubris is often one-sided
There are many arrogant writers
Quick with the wit they’ve decried
Moans of pain suited to their fame
Loving with one eye open it’s often implied
Trying Out Stories In The Morning
Trying out stories in the morning
Typing away on this ol’ machine
Thinking of something different
A genius the world’s never seen
But I can’t think of anything great
I guess I’ll get more coffee instead
I hear a whistle from my lady
I guess my love needs me back in bed
Pope St. Gregory the Great
“The proof of love is in the works. Where love exists, it works great things. But when it ceases to act, it ceases to exist.”
–Pope St. Gregory the Great
Allen Ginsberg
“We are great writers on the same dreadful typewriter.”
― Allen Ginsberg, Howl and Other Poems
Captain Q 