Thanks

Thankful for all that I have had in my life,
what I still do have,

and what I have yet to have.

"My Thanksgiving" ~Don Henley

A lot of things have happened
Since the last time we spoke
Some of them are funny
Some of em aint no joke
And I trust you will forgive me
If I lay it on the line
I always thought you were a friend of mine

Sometimes I think about you
I wonder how youre doing now
And what youre going through

The last time I saw you
We were playing with fire
We were loaded with passion
And a burning desire
For every breath, for every day of living
And this is my thanksgiving

Now the trouble with you and me, my friend
Is the trouble with this nation
Too many blessings, too little appreciation
And I know that kind of notionwell, it just aint cool
So send me back to sunday school
Because Im tired of waiting for reason to arrive
Its too long weve been living
These unexamined lives

Ive got great expectations
Ive got family and friends
Ive got satisfying work
Ive got a back that bends
For every breath, for every day of living
This is my thanksgiving

Have you noticed that an angry man
Can only get so far
Until he reconciles the way he thinks things ought to be
With the way things are

Here in this fragmented world, I still believe
In learning how to give love, and how to receive it
And I would not be among those who abuse this privilege
Sometimes you get the best light from a burning bridge

And I dont mind saying that I still love it all
I wallowed in the springtime
Now Im welcoming the fall
For every moment of joy
Every hour of fear
For every winding road that brought me here
For every breath, for every day of living
This is my thanksgiving

For everyone who helped me start
And for everything that broke my heart
For every breath, for every day of living

This is my Thanksgiving.

Solitary View of Somewhere

Sitting amongst the wreckage of ruin,

an invisible man in the dark.

A void into the distance,

an empty nothingness...sitting.

He is vapor,

mist,

an entity of lost and never found.

Apathy and no direction.

A nauseating view of nothingness,

a full view of empty.

A cup full of shallow.

A lackluster existance,

only equalled by sheer stupidity

and vapid discussions of chatter with no solid.

Better to be mute,

then water with no flow.

Silence a gift to ones with nothing to say.

©2010∞Copperhead

Hide

The brightest day will create the darkest shadows,

watch the glare,

because the sun is blinding.

Stay in the dark.

Safe, quiet, silence.

Stillness like the sound of White.

A transparent void where there is no entry and no exit.

The middle is surely a dead end.

©2010∞Copperhead

Mary, Mary

She plays Jesus as she types,
calling to spirits above; hands held high and mystic words recited,
a spell of sanctity and sanctimoniousness...
in between sips of Chamomile tea.
Clipping coupons and working overtime.
conjuring deities and conquering Satan,
the hippie girl in pigtails and platforms...
a modern day flower child in a Mary Magdalene dress.
Praying for a Saviour to bring her home...
someone with a clean soul...or at least a job.
Bible boys on bikes carrying bouquets of Daffodils laced with sin,
arrive on her doorstep on a mission of mercy,
with the good book open to Galatians 5:19,
they yell, "Pray Sister", as she gets down on her knees.
Feet stomping, hands clapping, they pray for her redemption.
©2008∞Copperhead

To Paint

I wish I could paint...

I thought as I gazed upon his work...
alive with color and imagination,
a craftsman of creativity.
But...
I paint with words...
images in the mind with deft tongue and playful spirit.
My muse is the melancholy melody that plays in my soul.
Words like shotgun blasts to the common man.
My "filter", I've shed...like a snake sheds it's skin,
bare and naked to the world.
With truth and with fire,
and brief bits of rage...
I speak, and I spit...
a tiger in cage.
Words rolled out like dough,
this baker...she cooks!
Phrases caressed on the tongue,
with a twist...
and a smile.
I'm brazen...
I'm smokin',
this babe...
she's got style!
I'm wild and I'm free,
and I say what I like.
Come closer, my darling...
I don't nibble...
I bite.
©2008∞Copperhead

Requiem

You walk with me,
and hold my hand...tightly.
Slow stumbling steps that once walked tall.
Still with pride and strength and purpose.
The strong hand of a strong man that once pulled me up;
wiped away my tears from bruised knee and broken heart,
now shakes as it writes; I love you, daughter...
on that dime-store Christmas card.
I see you with tattered bow and worn heart...
tired from the many heartaches,
yet full of love and hope.
I see you as you were,
and as I was...
Forever the little girl in dress of Blue,

wild hair of Red with Pink ribbons cascading,

caught up and tangled like the old swing in that park by the lake.
You in that summer shirt the color of lemonade with the scent of Old Spice or Brut,

or whatever we could afford to buy you that year.
Years passed ...
memories of fishing on the lake at dusk,
as you fought off the mosquitoes and I fought off over-anxious suitors...
boys with the smell of sweat and car engines

and the swagger of would-be Romeos searching for their Juliet.
Those Summers passed too quickly and the Winters were never-ending.
As life passed too quickly as well...
and I hold your hand just once more,
afraid to let go.
Knowing that it's late and it's time to go.
©2007∞Copperhead

Gingerbread Man and the Lollipop Kid

Quicksand feet and molasses hands...
gingerbread woman
all sticky sweet.
Glazed eyes and candy lips,
arms outstretched in an empty hug.
Cinnamon heart and painted on smile,
waiting on the marshmallow man,
with his corn syrup promises,
and kiss of Maple sugar.
Lollipop kid in Lemon and Lime,
trendy young lad ahead of his time,
Licorice arms and Cherry heart,
Jolly Rancher style and melted dreams.
Dime store romance,
with the Bullseye girl.
Eyes of Ginger and soul of Caramel.
Living life in the brownie house.
©2008∞Copperhead

The Garden

She is my child's flower...
in his secret garden,
in a world of their own making...
where the ogres are time,
and the boogeyman is life.
Where fairies dance by starlight,
and fireflies are their lanterns.
She grows wild,
in the dark side of the forest,
small and quiet in her beauty,
intense and full of magic,
casting her mystery in a moonlight dance,
a wanderer in a world not quite ready for her.
She is just beginning...
a delicate bud, yet to bloom...
a sweet fragrant Rose in his eyes,
in all her Summer splendor.
He tends to her,
and takes great care to keep the weeds away,
lest they smother her and crush her spirit.
Her sun is the words of beauty that spill from his mouth,
when he whispers to her his childhood secrets.
Her water is the tears he cries as they part,
vowing to meet again in fields of promises and daydreams.
He is a faithful gardener,
day and night he tends to her.
An overlooked beauty,
rare is their love.
Innocent and soulful,
she is my baby's "baby",
and I wonder at the magic she possesses to captivate my child so.
Brilliant and breathtaking is their view of the world,
artist and muse in equal exchange.
A sonata of even harmony.
©2008∞Copperhead

Wait For Me

As he sits like a tombstone...
amid a mountain of indecision,
frailties and weakness.
At the top of a pile of overturned earth
sits his insecurities and doubt.
His loneliness...
screaming at him like a banshee,
yet he had not the courage or strength
to see beyond himself.
Decency for another covered by selfishness,
like the Black mourning coat he now wears.
As she waits...
glints of Grey form in her hair,
her skin of Ivory grows pale with each season,
lines form in her face,
like maps of the many roads she has travelled with no destination at their end.
Eyes that once shined like the stars
falling upon the still of a night sky,
in his midnight dreams...
are now vacant and still.
She grows cold awaiting his embrace.
But wait...he now returns.
Her lips open waiting for him...

cold with the stench of once warm breath that has long since become rancid.
He reaches for her hand,
once warm with promise.
Now, open...
always.
Always open, for him to hold.
Arms that longed for him,
empty...many nights,
are now heavy, weary and still.
they fall into embrace.
©2009∞Copperhead

*Watch the video on the Visual Poetry page tab on the top of my blog*

Grits and Gingham

And they would dance...
her in that Pink waitress outfit with soiled Gingham apron,
and those White nurse shoes...
scuffed at the right toe and worn down on one side from standing too long in one spot,
and that Hail Mary doily hat.
Queen of the diner...
and the greying greaser...
Brylcreem D.A and Navy tat on sagging bicep,
worn White t-shirt with Wild Turkey stench,
biscuits and gravy grease and those Kool cigarettes rolled up in one sleeve.
As they danced around the jukebox,
Tapioca pudding stuck to the floor,
flies sitting this one out with the Cherry Coke dried to the table.
A collage of cheap tin and glass ashtrays...
holding a buffet of over-chewed Juicy Fruit gum and Marlboros.
Silver napkin holder gleaming like a princess' mirror waiting for her prince,
"Rose Garden" playing on the jukebox,
children playing at the waitress table in the corner...
Jacks, Old Maid and Go Fish.
Good and Plenty and Bazooka gum.
Coloring books with cheap wax crayons, flat on one side with the paper peeled off.
Johnny Cash walks-the-line as Tommy yells, "Order up!"...

the kitchen doors swing open like high noon in a John Wayne movie at the town saloon...
and the Vietnam cowboys walk out the front door onto the concrete Ponderosa into an Appalachian sunset.
©2008∞Copperhead

*Watch the video on the Visual Poetry page tab on the top of my blog*

Visual Poetry

Check out my videos on the Visual Poetry page!

Nevermore

Bam, bam, bam...goes the frying pan...
Once, twice...again and again,

with the repetitive motion of a hammer pounding nails into soft balsam.
As blood sprayed the sheets and walls like a tapestry of color in a Peckinpah film.
A collage of the tragedy of a life, and a love, wasted.
The pigment, a rich dye of all the pain she endured.
A kaleidoscope of blood Red, and a Black soul, mixed with the Yellow in his spine.
Slap, slap, slap...she felt on her face ....
through blackened eyes swollen like the bee-stinged lips of a pin-up queen,
the faithful dog returning for scraps, only to be kicked and beaten.
Nevermore quoth the raven...

never more said the maiden.
An ending to a story...quite overdue.
Some speak in hush...
but the neighbors all knew.
As he felt the tap, tap, tap of the hammer sinking into cranium and crevice...
skull cracking and snapping like the bones in her arm when she burned dinner.
Snap, crackle, pop went the memories and the love.
Rip and tear went her heart, as his body hit the floor.
Boo hoo...

(sigh)

his life is no more.
©2008∞Copperhead

Roses of Yellow and Lavender

At death we do part,
in the ground,
in the dirt,
to be covered in the tears and sorrows of this life.
Roses of Yellow and Lavender,
Stars falling from the skies as clouds race past in Dante's dance.
Eternity and destiny united at the final curtain.
Black embrace,
still and cold,
like Ivory and concrete.
Hearts bleeding and displayed,
for the lovers to sigh,
mourners to weep,
and lier to mock.
The trees of Winter with branches dark with death,
breath cold and rancid with the smell of mold and stale promises.
Rumors and speculations,
whispered talk of lies and deceptions heard in the distance,
in the grave,
on the wind.
A vision of haze and mist across meadow.
Morrow does not come to these lips,
closed now forever,
never to speak of passion or love again,
Sweet kiss of life,
futile as lost love,
lips silent and sewn shut.
Safe in this crypt,
away from the others,
together as one now,
locked in eternal moonlight and embrace.
©2008∞Copperhead

*Watch the video on the Visual Poetry page tab on the top of my blog*

On existential loneliness

Is existential loneliness essential to creativity?
I find that in my darkest moments come my best writing.
Some writers go off on writer's retreats which often involve journeys into the woods or various places of deep solitude, and close themselves off from society and disruption.
Does this help or hinder?
If poets are such a depressed lot and are always in a state of self-sanctuary, is this really necessary?
Might we just channel the muse in the middle of traffic,
grab a pen and write on a napkin? (done it)
Is pressuring the muse to perform the same as pressuring a lover and does it result in an unsatisfactory result on both sides?
Does it contribute to writer's block?
It is also to be noted that some of the best works of poetry and literature are often created in a writers deepest moments of blackness.
Is true loneliness then, the key to greater creativity?
If one finds real happiness (if it even exists),

is it ever the end of the true longing one feels in the soul?

Is that why many poets and writers choose for themselves subconsciously(and maybe even consciously) lives and loves that we know will never really satisfy.
For to lose love, that is forgivable...

to lose the muse is to incite madness and heartbreak of an even more painful and enduring kind.
©2008∞Copperhead

Valentine

CANDY HEARTS,
AND BEARS MADE OF PINK,
FLOWERS, DINNERS AND SHOWS OF AFFECTION,
ALL TO GET LOVE...
OR JUST AN ERECTION.
MATERIAL BULLSHIT,
JUST TO GET LAID,
PRESSURE TO SAY AND PRESSURE TO DO,
THIS DAY ON THE CALENDER,
DREADED BY MOST,
TO FEED ONE STRAWBERRIES OR GIVE CHAMPAGNE TOAST.
IF SINGLE,
SUCH PRESSURE TO BE WITH ANOTHER,
IF MARRIED,
A GAME...TO TRY TO BE LOVERS,
MEN HATE IT, IT SEEMS,
SUCH PRESSURE,
SUCH STRIFE,
TO TRY TO SHOW AFFECTION,
TO A WOMAN...OR WIFE!
WOMEN EXPECT...WELL, WAY TOO MUCH TOO,
AN EXTRAVAGANT GIFT OR VARIOUS JEWELS,
WOULDN'T STAR FILLED SKIES...OR A SUNSET JUST DO?
JUST SKIP THE WHOLE THING,
THE HELL WITH IT ALL,
FORGET IT, I QUIT.
DINNER DOES CALL,
BUT BEFORE I END,
AND YOU START TO HISS...
GIVE ME JUST ONE DAY WITH AN HONEST MAN'S KISS,
MY SOUL IN HIS HAND,
THIS THING I MISS.
MY MIND AND MY SOUL, THUS ONE IN HIS HEART,
DIFFERENT, YET THE SAME,
THE QUEST OF MANKIND,
JOINED NOT IN THE BODY...YET ENTWINED IN THE MIND,
YEATS WORDS...THEY HEAR, MY HEARTS TRUE CALL,
"HE SHALL LOVE MY SOUL...AS THOUGH BODY WERE NOT AT ALL."

©2008∞Copperhead