Muse at Midnight

In the stars above me

In the solace of the rain

In the shadows that surround me

In the breeze that calls my name

In the whisper of a candle

In the silence of my room

In the chaos of the city

In the magic of the moon

In the tick tock of time ticking

In the words I'll never find

In the sound of hearts breaking

In the echoes of my mind

In the thunder and the lightning

In the mist from the sea

In the broken hearts that haunt me

and ones waiting in a dream

Moments of the night - part I

There are moments in the night...
that get so quiet I can hear angels breathing in the dark. I hear them bumping into each other overcome by the darkness in my heart. I hear them tumble from clouds with the rain and the snow and the prayers that never made it back home to a God who abandoned us long ago. I hear them fumble and crumble in the chaos left behind from wars against the personal angels of some other poets private God... I hear them licking the wounds of their battered and tattered and ragged warriors as they march back to some green valley bathed in holy sun light and wait for sweet tears from Heaven to wash away the stench of love unrequited... I hear them whisper to one another secret plots against man. They scheme and they dream of setting fire to this world we took for granted and devoured with our lust and our greed and our reckless disregard for the only home... and the only chance we have... I hear them sharpening their swords and their spears and I hear the soft rubbing of silk laced with the nectar of cloves which they use to polish their armor. I hear them beating their breast plates with the steel in their hands and howl in the early hours of dawn at the lingering glow of the moon - like wolves and mad dogs and lions in chains begging to be set free to put an end to this disaster called humanity. I can hear them laugh at the suffering and the sorrow and the desperation of the week and the humble and the downtrodden... at the poor and the enslaved and the abused... and the sick and the dieing and the dead... the ones that died without knowing love and happiness and beauty and never had a chance to be touched by music and poetry and art... those that lived in fear and those that lived without ever knowing the grace of love... of God... of the light... the light that always comes to late... I hear them laugh... at those who came so close and gave up hope before they reached the truth... those poor souls who never took the time to listen in these moments of the night...

Meet me on Wednesday

There’s a little used book shop down town that is very easy to find, for the smell of aging pages fills the air in the neighborhood like fresh brewed coffee rising to great the rain. It sits tucked away at the end of a row of brown stones off Gold Street. It is small and dusty and crowded with books and dreams and poems that might never be read. The shelves are huddled close together as tight as they can be, allowing only the minimal amount of space for a wayward adventurer to walk between them swaying your body this way and that way with a quick turn here and skip right there and you must remember to look up and stay conscious of falling works by forgotten masters of the art of blah, blah, blah... This place has got more traps than an Aztec Temple... but what you will find... dreams you never though you would ever get to see... words you thought you would never speak again... are here waiting for you... I’ll be waiting for you...


Meet me on Wednesday in the after noon but don’t let anyone know where you are going, in fact, don’t let anyone know you have left... sneak out like a thief with a purse full of precious stones meant to pay the ransom of some captured prince who doesn't deserves to sit on his fathers throne, but take those jewels and hand them out to the poor and the hungry and those longing to be loved wandering the city streets with no memory of a joyful past and no direction toward a hopeful future... throw those cursed jewels into the sky and let the beggars reach for the heavens to find them... but... don’t let anyone know you have left and where you are going and don’t take the shortest rout, go through alleyways and byways... enter this shop and that one making your way to their back entrance and leave through there, zig zag the city in dark glasses and hide the color of your hair under a scarf... to keep any would be pursuers confused... but wait! Before I forget, get us a box of chocolates or a bag of pastries from you know where...

When you get there leave your glasses on - I don’t want to see the memory of another trapped in the green of your eyes like some poor beast caged in emeralds... save that sweet torture for me. If you can make your way past the desk that sits in front of the window in the small entrance turned into the sports and hobby section you will enter into the main room of the store... turn left to avoid all the boxes on the floor piled high in front of the windows and then make a right at the end of that long shelf... to the right of you, there should be a section on psychology and philosophy... feel free to gently stroke the spines of the books as you pass by... I’m sure they will like that very much. Somewhere in that chaos you might find your beloved Nietzsche... just keep walking until you get to the end of that row and make a right... just a few more steps and you will come to an entrance to another room on your left... you might have to jump over a couple of boxes... and if you can... past the biographies of long dead American presidents and a few Europeans... in the history section by the very last shelf... I will be waiting... hungry and in need of the kisses you promised... and if you can’t make it... I will leave you a poem hidden in the pages of the "Tale of Genji" which I keep a copy of in the back of the books on the third shelf from the bottom... or leave it there as a humble offering to the Gods of the written word that they too may know that I once wrote... inspired only by my lust...

A rainy afternoon at Bruno's

The rain fell on me like a curse from Heaven. It poured down on the city with a vengeance I had not felt in many years, and a small part of me knew that I deserved this punishment. I ran up Central Avenue dodging tourists and locals dazed and confused and blinded by the droplets of water as thick as crystals, piercing the skin right to the soul, and those rocks of rain that missed their targets shattered on the ground releasing screams of desire and lust... and anger and pain in a howl that haunts me still. By the time I got to Bruno’s I was drenched. I stepped in the door as if I had swam up from the sea and the customers, warm and dry looked on me with amazement and disgust... except for one... a lonely one sitting at the counter next to my usual spot, gazing up from her book with tenderness and understanding... her lips formed a smile of pity that said to me "Sweet, darling angel sit and rest for a while - but once your wings have dried and your belly nourished, back to the battle field you go...".
I sheepishly made my way to the counter and dropped my bag on the floor. Looking up to find Bruno shaking his head at me as he throws a dry towel my way, mumbling curses at me in French as if the storm outside was all my doing... or maybe it was because I dripped have the sea onto his restaurant floor - just get me some coffee, thank you...
And she laughed - it’s a good thing you two are friends...
I shake my head into the towel - I think I’m pushing it...
Coffee sits on the counter in front of me. Fingers tapping annoyingly - I suppose you need cream for that?
Yes, that would be nice, thank you...
He turns and walks away... those French curses fading into the distance.
I yell out - My father’s French you know...
Yes! He yells back from the other end of the counter - But your grandfather was a Nazi...
Now everyone is looking at me and judging me for things I had absolutely no control over... talk about feeling uncomfortable... I hold my head up as proud as I can, bringing the coffee cup to my lips and raise it just a bit the way one does in making a last minute toast... and the words escaped before I could stop them - Here’s to the master race... and God’s chosen people alike... (I told you, I couldn’t stop them).
gasps from the crowd as I take a sip from my cup... where’s that cream...?
She laughs - So what exactly does that make you?... she asks.
I look at her and smile - I’m all Mexican, baby... did I just call her baby? Yes, I did.
She laughs and my cream arrives. Bruno stretches his hand out to display his wet floor.
I raise my hands offering him the fact that he has employees to take care of these things.
He offers me another French curse and walks away.
I look at her apologetically - It just sounds like he’s mad but that’s how the French speak... with lots of passion...
She smiles in agreement - Hmm... my father’s French as well...
I reach for the cream - aren’t we lucky bastard’s...
She giggles...
I forget the cream and offer her my hand -I’m... (insert real name here)...
She takes my hand - Hi (insert real name here), I’m Dianne...
And so it was... a Rainy afternoon at Bruno’s with Dianne, coffee and pastries, poetry books and wet hair...we talked for three hours and shared stories of far away cities and childhood tales of adventures gone terribly wrong, we shared eclairs and accidental strokes of our fingers in reaching for sugar or cream or pieces of delicate bread crusts, we shared smiles and glances that would make onlookers believe we were lovers on a scheduled lunchtime rendevous, and if we caught ourselves in a lingering gaze... we looked away trying to find objects on the counter that may perhaps need re-arranging. We spoke of poetry and art and film... She praised Godard and I the works of Michael Bay... she wasn’t buying it, but I’m a guy and I had to try... Godard...
We tried to talk philosophy until she mentioned Nietzsche... and the words two bit hack slipped out... and we moved on to other subjects... stealing glances and smiles and gentle touches of fingers gliding across ones hand when trying to get a certain point across... the crowd disappeared and we lingered with our coffee and pastries... with Bruno and Sabine... and we never noticed that the rain had stopped...

 
art work by Pam Powell

Waiting for your kiss

Waiting for Jesus
in the snow
I’m looking for God
everywhere I go
Looking for the Holy Spirit
to save my soul...
waiting for your kiss

Looking for angels
in the rain
Looking for the pill
that will heal my pain
Looking for inspiration
on a Paris train...
waiting for your kiss

On a lonely street in Paris

On a lonely street in Paris
I looked up to find a star
But the clouds rolled over me - oh, so quickly
And drowned my broken heart

So I walked around forever
Couldn’t find an open bar
And the letter I never gave her
Was washed away with my heart

It would take a thousand years

It would take a thousand years
It would take a hundred thousand tears
It would take the sharp end of a spear - in my heart... to forget you
It would take a storm raging from the sea
It would take the waters of eternity
To wash away your memory - from my heart...to forget you
It would take the fires from the pits of hell
It would take a fortune tossed in a wishing well
To ever break me free from this spell - that holds my heart... to forget you
It would take a dagger right through my soul
It would take the day heaven is frozen cold
And a new universe to unfold - for my heart... to forget

Something like this

Maybe I’m just not ready for something like this
We can’t be together but I can’t live without your kiss
But there’s someone I can’t forget and she won’t let me go
I don’t know what love is yet - but she’s the only muse I know

Maybe I’m just not ready for true love to come my way
But I’ll keep you in my heart and be yours come what may
But there’s another who still haunts me and who’s eyes I can’t escape
Though you’re the one I want to be with - you may have come along too late

Maybe I’m just not ready for someone to call my own
Maybe dreams are the chains that bind me and will forever keep me alone
Though you maybe the one to free me - we stay a thousand miles apart
I’m best left in this prison cell where I can’t break your heart

Maybe I’m just not ready for something like this

The Sun, the Moon, and the Stars...

I will be the star that shines in the storm
I will be the fire that burns in the snow
I will be the light that comes from your soul
I will be yours...
I will be the night and the day and the rain
I will be the pleasure the joy and the pain
And I may be the one that drives you insane
But I will be yours...

I will be the wind and the clouds and the sea
I will be the prophet of your fantasy
I will be your lover for eternity
I will be yours...
And I will be the sun and the moon and the stars
I will be the kiss of God inside your heart
And the song at midnight that tears you apart
But I will be yours...

Lust...desire... or love...

Sometimes angels get tired of fighting
Sometimes the devil gets tired of lying
Sometimes a cowboy comes in from riding
When his broken heart gets tired of hiding
They say everybody needs some body
And woman I need you

Sometimes Cupid gets tired of trying
Sometimes an eagle gets tired of flying
Sometimes and old sailor comes in from the sea
When the pain in his heart has set him free
They say everybody needs some body
And I think I need you

She breaks my heart...

She breaks my heart a hundred different ways
with the tones of her voice and the things that she says
with her delicate fingers caught in my hair
and the waters of her eyes that trap me in her stair

She breaks my heart a hundred different times
with the dreams she inspires and these melancholy rhymes
when she cries out in passion in the dark of the night
and her moans of satisfaction when I’ve loved her just right

She breaks my heart with a hundred different words
with the ones in this poem and the ones I haven’t heard
with the whispers she uses to seduce me through the day
and her well rehearsed good-byes when she goes away

She breaks my heart and I wait around for more
with a hundred shattered pieces of my heart there on the floor
with sounds of words unspoken waiting to become real
and turn into the one poem that will tell her how I feel.

Seduced

I steal her pictures when she’s not looking
I’ve got her on film in black and white
There’s an 8mm movie
Playing on my wall tonight
As I put my pen on to paper
And try to tell her how I feel
My words are scrambled letters
That no code breaker could reveal

I just can’t help it - but I can’t let it show
I just can’t help it - but I can’t let her go
And she doesn’t even know...
That I’ve been seduced

The words she writes are a sweet torture
they keep me locked up in chains
She stabs at my heart and takes what’s left of me
and when she’s gone only her dagger remains
Her whispers always conquer me
When I’m lost in a dream of Japan
Her fingers rob me blind
Like the queen of thieves of Siam

She just can’t help it - when she knocks me to the floor
She just can’t help it - she leaves me begging for more
And she doesn’t even know...
That I’ve been seduced...

I’ve been seduced...

Wounded

I’m wounded by the kisses she never gave
Wounded by the way she says my name
Wounded by the scent she left behind
And I’m wounded by the whispers I can’t find

I’m wounded by the music that still lingers
Wounded by the fire that was in her fingers
Wounded by the shadows that stain my wall
And I’m wounded by the telephone that won’t ring at all

I’m wounded by this dagger in my heart
Wounded by the ocean that keeps us apart
Wounded by the saxophone in this song
And I’m wounded by the vodka that doesn’t last for long

When she was mine

I never said the things I should have said when she was mine
I could never find the words and I sure as hell never found the time
Now she is far away and those words are thunder in my head
But I'll hide them between the lines of these poems that will never be read
I never did the things I should have done when I had her near
I never showed her who I really was out of so much fear
And I never held her close - not the way she needed to be held
Some nights it felt like love and some nights it felt like hell
I never showed her all of the good that was inside of me
I didn't think she would understand who I was and what I was trying to be
Now she is far away and I'm not who she thought I was
But it doesn't matter if I'm a stranger now, anyhow, because...

I never said the things I should have said when she was mine...

Gold

I know men who dream only of power
They want to hold the world in the palm of their hands
I know men who write of forgotten lovers
And passion that we will never understand
I know men who want to climb to Heaven
And jump into the arms of love
And I know men that a little more time - is all they dream of
I know men who find their dreams
Between a bottle and an empty street
Some on a crowded dance floor
And some between faded sheets
I know men who dream of revolutions
I know men who want to wear the emperor’s ring
But I don’t need to be a president or a king ...
You are gold to me

ALIBI

Some men will move mountains
And build cities on the sea
Some men will never learn
How to grab hold of their dreams
Some men will climb to Heaven
While some go through hell
Some will compose operas
While others have no tale to tell

Some men will find true love
Some only know lust
Some men will find glory
While other lives turn to dust
Some men will build empires
And conquer all of their fears
While some live in the past
And die in wasted years