COFFIN TRAIL

towards the end of the trail
sat a small gathering of old poets
a gypsy photo gallery with color
whispering out of tune hymns
with golden thoughts without voice

gazing at the open oak coffin
no doubt a drunken dead poet lies
covered with his plastic membrane
celebrating his awkward funeral feast
with voiceless words with thoughts

looking towards emptiness without distress
and the hidden grace that lies ahead
the dead poet mourns his unwritten poems
conjuring his magical disappearing act
with one limb in the grave

CRUMBS

moving from one DESIGNATED point to another
forming free EXPRESSIVE brushstrokes with abstract shapes

using a poets words as a path to TRAVEL
leaving an UNCOMPLETED poem for the critics to read

defining half-conditioned problems of the GHETTO
with inflammatory hooligans SEEKING refuge

referring to art galleries as morgues for DEAD paintings
displayed in harsh UNCHANGING light

looking at something beyond SYMBOLIC stop signs
TOWARDS Jesus in a wheel less carriage

SITTING with percolating words with crumbs
and ANOTHER Kerouac metaphor

SHOCKED

having survived more
treatments in riverview
head rotting
mind a bust

head wired
connected and psychotic
computerized with broken
words on the floor

unsigned with blank
cheque and no cents
loyal but late
without money

lost on the street
years of youth
drowning on grey wards
crying in the corners

lying psyche doctors
secretly hiding
shiny instruments
behind pharmaceuticals

two hours forgetting it all
without memory
no cents left in bank
they have it all

part of the evil system
electrically inducing seizures
another vegetable
shocked

IN THE MOMENT

stopped by the bending willows
twisting in the wind
rustling leaves
croaking in the garden
Buddha and the toad
sit in silence

NOTHING LEFT

searching for the petrified truth of the blues
characterized by some stench of smell
I am tired of thinking
shameful of some past performance

comforted when the morning light goes on
clinging to old hunchback bones
I am tired of performing
delighted that their will be no applause

unable to exploit the corridors of sanity
exploring denial without direction
I am unable to incorporate the Virgin Mary
drowning in complex doctrines

mournful for the destitute of weakness
transcending grace and salvation
I am examining the revelations of silent glue
fearful of the universe and beyond

listening to idiotic conversations with self
incorporated into another literary discussion
I am watching the absurd pain
travel to my left

FRIENDS

sitting on the deck with morning tea
listening to Drag Queens in a Limousine
poets who never speak
natives who survive not weak
prissoners who remain innocent
street people strong not bent
tranvestites in high heels
blind Willie with eyes that feel
drunks with all their compassion
children that play have fun
nuns that feed the hungry
painters that paint what no others see
homeless who are still winners
priests who are not sinners
drifters out front who we follow
politicians who are real not hollow
mentally challenged who let me be
just me
family and friends
all that took me in

SUNDAY HYMN

thumbprint on the wind
in my rock garden
Sunday hymn