Sing to me ohh misery and tell me something new
Spread your word like the bird that's chirping till it's blue
Serve a Serpent's hate and capitulate to all they're selling you
Buy the brand and then demand that we all wear it too

Sell a story of love and glory then turn it into hate
Push the herd and Contort the word that wise men often state
Come sing it from the pulpit come dance and devastate
After all it's our own damn fault, too easy to manipulate

So sing to me ohh misery a drink, a dance Devine
Spread your filth across my floor until it's suppertime
I'll bow my head, repeat what's said and toe the fucking line
Sing to me ohh misery perhaps... another... time.

Don't read this... It's not for you!

"Rings and other jewels are not gifts but apologies for gifts.  The only gift is a portion of thyself... Therefore the poet brings his poem."

One of my favorite writers, a man named Emerson, wrote that.  He would go on to explain how cold and lifeless it is to go to a shop to purchase an object that tells of another persons talents.  Don't be fooled by the material, look instead to beauty of the soul that molds it, that nourishes it and gives it willingly to the world. Surround yourself with those whose value extends beyond accumulation of monetary gain and you will forever be rich beyond your own imagination.

Please take these opals as an apology, they are not my gift to you, this is...




I give to you, the two I knew, before you knew yourself,
A promise in a poem that I'll share with no one else.
These words are yours should you choose to share
They belong to you and have been scribed with care.

I give to you the sky of blue and all the earth beneath its view
The trees and stars, from here to Mars and the breeze that's blowing through.
A touch, a step, a secret kept, and the wondrous world awaiting too
This though, is just the start of the gift I give to you.

A tender kiss from wave to shore, a chance to breath and to explore.
A glance that's shared with passerby, a conversation for you to try
In foreign tongue, a myth undone and a mountain range so high.
This gift I give is knowing that life's limits leap beyond the sky.

No house or car or movies star will hold it's value long
No, the treasures sought by many will not prove to prolong
What's real is yours and mine, every bit Devine, and heard in every song.
The gift I give is knowing the best things in life, to you, already belong.

Jump from the platform of regret.  Live the life you deserve to love. Love the life you live.
How well do you know yourself?  Knowledge that doesn't die comes from the whispering of the soul. Propped up by the confines of sinking, stopping.

Dwell on yesterday and it will unravel the thread of your mind.  Live for tomorrow and it will never come.  A single moment only comes once in a lifetime yet it is where we spend eternity.  Swirling singing soft snow settles soothingly upon our shoulders.  The globe that confines is made of glass.  What a clever prison we reside in that gives the appearance of absolute freedom.  Make a man a slave and resistance is bound to ensue, convince him he is free and you will have a slave for life.
Passed by plastic princesses, dancing delighted at the beauty of their own globe.  Force applied to fingers, furiously finding freedom.  The act of shattering that globe, terrifying. We've been warmed for years by the fluid.  Seeking something beyond submerged security is scary.  



Movement is life.  Not even the water in the ocean can stay there forever.  We too must ascend to the heavens and be spread to the earth.  However, before we go, it's not a bad idea to wash up on a distant shore from time to time.

A stroll through the brightest parts of madness

Only by allowing the chaos of the world to enter the expansive landscape of the mind will we ever know the endless beauty it contains.  Fire parts the mountain and divides the bitter solitude of forever.




Tired is that mind that controls the legs that stand for nothing.

The greatest communicators in history have been misunderstood or overlooked by over 95% of the world.  If your voice causes just 5% of people passing by to feel your music or allow your art to touch them you have succeeded beyond measure.  If that moment sparks the creation, the inspiration or the causation of another's art, then you will be forever alive, immortalized in an endless chain of human experience.  Concern yourself not with the 95 percent.  Rather find strength in expression, find oil on canvas. 

Bobbing motionless in a sea of sharks.  Unseen by the busy eyes and frantic step of a generation on autopilot.  A minute, an hour, seems to drift.  Only two of a thousand drop coin in the cup of those in need.  

When we cease to halt and enjoy the art in front of us, when we refuse to help our fellow man our humanity dissapates.  We are once again the animal. 

After two hours 1 person stopped to view the art.  As soon as they did, three others followed suit.

Is it fear that keeps us from looking up? When one does it gives permission to others to follow. A species of followers, like fish in a flock. We buy certain brands in an effort to show others our originality.  We wear them while stepping in stride with the rest of the world.  Everyday we buy things we don't need with money we don't have to impress people that don't actually care.  There is one truth in life and many things that matter, none of which being the name on your blue jeans the cost of your car.  The less you want the more you have.

I sat for hours attempting to construct the perfect sentence.  All that came to mind was the vast expansive beauty of her eyes, galactic in innocent shine and size.... Perhaps I will try again tomorrow.

Tired is that mind that controls the legs that stand for nothing.

Trust

I felt the sound of the world and smelled the heat of the sun
Reached my hands to the stars and seized the life from one
I used a lariat to harness the body of an idea
then took a breath and with it exhaled out all my fear.

I found in truth that there is wine, a shifting paradigm
A loosed tongue, a life undone and lost a love Devine
I met my mistress Minerva toward the ending of a circle
She reassured me that nothing rhymes with circle

Snowball fights in August.
They happen now and then
They bring you clean and clear the soul of all the pain that it may know
While Bending the branch of time again.
Snowball fights in August
Not as uncommon as you may think
You've got to go a-ways, I know, but the feeling is distinct
Of taking shot from friend or foe
Of a snowball thrown in August and the place you'll grow to know
Cause for a snowball fight in August the highest mountains you must go
Or find yourself flipped upside down in a land that's down below
A snowball fight in August is a thing you otta try
Cast away those shackles and live before you die.

What if where you're going is where you've always been
What if all your about to be's are really your remember when's
What if you could see a bit of hope in me
What if money's not the end

How can I open my world up to you
How can you start to trust me too
How can we start to be free
How can you speak out while she's holding me

Loved and lost and loved again
It's true I drank away my only friend
I can't begin to see the hurt I've caused
Because of you I stop and pause

We'll breathe a breath again one day
We'll watch the children laugh and play
We'll sit and sing the song
Of all the right and the wrong we have done.

We get so few

I met a moment
She touched my world
I let her go
She stole the cold of my soul
But I let her go

I made a memory
As Water molds the stone
I let her go
Never felt at home
When She let me go

I missed my mark
An arrow crests the wall
I found her here
A drop spark on fire falls
I let her go

Thoughts in a van

The moon and stars,
A muse for hours.
A lite that lingers
loving like an artists finger's.

This place, still wild...like the heart of a child.
A dance, a day, a night to play.
A chill so real it's hard not to feel
So cold
and alone.


Never stop embracing that child from within.
Sing a song, write a poem, do a cartwheel in a park far away from home!
Live for today, tomorrow is a myth.  The who we are not the what we have becomes our greatest gift.
We have this moment to achieve a better version of ourselves, to rise and fall, to do it all, to place our fears upon the shelf.
Feel the sun grabbing at your naked skin, run and play throughout the day and never grow old again.
And never stop embracing that child from within.



I wrote a poem today and said most of what I wished to say.
Though It became a challenge toward the end ...
to make it live, to make it fly, to watch the words ascend.
It wasn't till I stopped trying that the words they came to me.
A lovely lesson learned in letting life's mind live free.



I want simply to sit here all day long and write a song that proves that we are not gone.  That we remain the same, no less humane, not just avoiding but removing all our pain. The people who I speak with have many things to say, some are good and some are bad but most have forgotten about today.  They gather for tomorrow like a squirrel in an autumn chill, people have forgotten that this moment is all that is real.  The size of your TV or the name that's on that degree mean nothing to me.  You see, these are the things that keep us from being truly free.