I'm No Robert Frost And This Ain't The Berlin Wall

You want I should rhyme and write something lyrical
You want a poem about mending fences
And not constructing them
Preach to someone else my sweet
Of my abusive use of improper sarcasms
And aforementioned hit pieces of poetry and prose
I've stared down the barrel of a loaded gun before
They're only words not bullets I fire
If you are so offended by them then don't pluck out my eye
Close your own
For I try not to become defensive of what I write
When envious people like yourself take delight
In impugning my own self confessed crucifixions
You...poets of the heart and soul
Who write of rainbows and God's will
Angels who wear halos made from their own tarnished acclaim
Dually noted by the the anger in their pain
Impute me with your white picket fence
I bleed not for you but for myself
Drink of it if you like with your vampire needs
To feel superior over even the holier than thou
It is not my foot on which you step
It is my tongue with which I slur your precious name
As you do not yet know the difference
Between a fence and a cage......

2007 © T.S.

A Slave To A Knave/ Human History Month

Bone by bone and limb by limb
My life which was purchased
With your blood money
Is now to be placed upon the block
And then auctioned off as neither
Animal or Vegetable
But as the bi products used
In the making of soap
Most times smells will reveal
More to us than words can tell
Decay so unmistakably told
By the tiny hairs in ones nose
And not by the incompetent adjectives and verbs
Left speechless by a liar's tongue.....

2007 © T.S.

When Nine Out Of Ten Experts Agree

A consensus of brilliant minds offers no absolute proof
as to anything more than proving once and for all
the world is still flat....and we are all about to sail off its edge

2007 © T.S.

She Told Me To Get The Heck Out Of Her Poem

The Poet lives in a glass house
With no windows to the outside
Only doors
Leaving open the heart to be visited
By others
Even the unwelcome visitor
Is received
The Poet writes
With words that sometimes rhyme
The pen is put to the worldly task
Of describing what the Poet sees
And the heart feels
With words and not a brush stroke
Or a camera's flash
Pictures and paintings take on form
As if they were visions seen clearly
With the eyes
Of the Poet's true being and pure soul
Ink and paper
Tears and stains
Of past and present
Sorrows and pain
Loves and losses
Given the need to describe
What it is like to clean
A Poet's glass house
The Poet writes
With doors wide open
Come in
Take what you need
Give what you will
And leave

  ©2007 T.S.

New Moon, Who Knew, Being This Afraid Of Aging Thing Has Gone To Far!

It was almost noon and this Ghoul's gout was hungry
Gangrene's stomach was growling tumultuously
He must feed or start losing important pieces of his own flesh
to the decaying patience of a most nefarious disease
Decrepit and partially castrated by his arch enemy Time
He demandingly so took a big toothless bite
of the Virgin's youthful recipe for longevity.
As is customary for the sacrificing of human life___
His obedient wife had prepared this meal just for him
In that he had to vomit his previous dinner of a sewer rat
they had found passed out behind the mortuary's curtains
The virgin girl was drugged and lying motionless as in death
She seemed to taunt him with her silent laughter
Her life force would be needed to heal his abscessed sores
He could hear her erotic whispers___
She was having a last laugh on him
As his shriveled scrotum and gums looked for but one gonad
to share this power lunch with him
But even cockroaches weren't hungry today

©2007 T.S.

Ending on a "HIGH NOTE"...

A Devoted Gardener of Love and Beauty

I looked upon her beauty as a flower
I hesitated to pinch her from her stem
Instead I planted myself next to her
Where I too have flourished in a sense…..

Dedicated to my wife

2008 ©T.S.

This is one hell of an album...

A Beautiful Day

The grass grew virtually overnight; the Buttercups
so tall they spilled their beauty on the lawn
I have fallen behind in my everyday chores and duties;
the mower quit working and is demanding a raise.
I couldn’t provide it with one; as I too have not been paid.
What the hell, I’m just sitting here on a Sunday,
trying to put off today what I can get done on Monday.
Reclining in my favorite deck chair, sunning my cancers;
admiring God’s work in the world. Such beautiful plush clouds;
the fruit trees in blossom and the birds singing to their young,
while mankind’s contributions crumble all about me
and the mower holds the gas can in utter contempt.

2008 © T.S.