Chemo Day

Chemo day, Chemo Day,
How we hate your ugly ways.
You poison us, we lose our sight,
We endure this endless fight.

We feel sick, we feel bad,
this makes us angry, makes us sad,
Our eyes are lost, we lose our way,
Our fingers burn on any cold day.

We can't complain, We cannot mock,
This is a fight that can be lost,
It isn't not fair, it isn't right,
No one should face this horrid fight.

The end of this is far away,
How we yearn for that distant day,
When this is over, and all behind,
we and can go on, no endless grind.

We endure, we persevere,
We fight alone this crippling fear,
The marathon continues, on its way,
To keep the cancer far at bay.

The Sweetest Kiss

She gave me the sweetest kiss,
A perfect moment of endless bliss,
In a moment that was all too brief,
It brought my heart to sweet relief.

I caressed her cheek, I brushed her neck,
My heart cashed its love lost check,
Lost in a moment of perfect joy,
I slipped away in an endless Void.

My heart fluttered when I met her lips,
Now alone her presence is missed,
I yearn to reach out and touch again,
To silence the heart alone in pain.

(Sub)Mission: Failure! (now up to #105)

So I submitted a short story to Glimmertrain press for a contest. Rejected. *sigh* I would take it as a real ego bruising if I actually had an Ego. Thankfully, my friends all made sure I had none of that foolish stuff left.

Going to submit for their next contest and see if I win that one. Law of averages states I got to win one at some point.

After all, the only risk regretted is the one you never take.


....Well, that and that one thing with the stripper. But I won't talk about that sober.

Poetry, I Am Hollow

I am empty, I have no life's joy.
My purpose fades like autumn foy,
I stand alone in the colden night,
I feel alone with endless blight.

The sun brings no hope, no comfort be,
Not warming the soul deep within me.
I wander round the world so vast,
Time of an insect, my life will not last.

I cry and mope and seek some solace,
The world spits back cruel and malice.
No one offers or reaches out to me,
No hope is given, I am left to be.

Time is slow and unfriendly meek,
But it strides ever forward, week by week.
How many hours are empty of life?
How many cry or purpose or strife?

I am passed by like a fade of rain,
begging for hope or scraps of pain.
A touch of tenderness, a kiss of bliss,
I look but don't find in endless mist.

I see delights, and comforts bare,
I can't reach out, all coin is rare.
I curl into bed, my eyes draining despair,
Pushing it out to leave my soul bare.

The place I stay is but empty and silence,
Loud in its way, it trumpets all absence.
Closing my eyes doesn't take it away,
I hear my heart as it fades to gray.

I am dying inside, I know I can feel it
I have nothing inside that can reel it
In the end I am hollow; empty, a shell.
And my life has turned into living hell.

Poetry, The Blind King.

The blind king sits on his throne,
while the court dances and yearns.
They sings songs of joy and rapture,
while the whole of kingdom burns.

The realm it rusts and rots beneath them,
while they count their piles of gold.
The merchants stomp and stamp their feet,
their voices ever growing bold.

The farms grow food they do not need,
and ship it far away.
The crows do drop and spread the seed,
that barren makes the hay.

The serfs do prance and sing to god,
while making balls of fire.
The priests do twist the message sent,
and pocket all the lyre.

The poor do stomp and stamp their feet,
demanding all the change.
They never take to earn it right,
just crying when it fades.

The guards do build a wall of death,
that tarrys any who cross.
The men sent back behind the line
do cause the kingdom loss.

Voices do reach the ears of the king,
who nods as if to say,
"No one could do this job better,
now kindly go away."

Amoung them all, the person sits,
running out of care.
When will someone notice him?
Before his purse is bare?

Poetry, The Old Friend.

Drifting through the night, silent as a leaf,
no noises made, no noise or creak,
no steps support it, no door hinders,
as it passes, the flames turn to embers.

But all feel the motion, it freezes their blood,
a river of cold flows down in a flood.
They hold themselves tighter, grasp what they dear,
cling to the living, hiding from fear.


It drifts ever upward, robes with no hem,
The hood hides the eyes, which spark like gems.
In its hand a thresher, driven by arms,
Meant to help collect, never to harm.

It reaches the door, passes on through,
its purpose was here, it felt, it knew.
It reached the bedroom, it went to her side,
It sat down next to the one it would guide.

She sat there a shell, flesh wrinkled away,
bones couldn't hold her, pain couldn't sway.
But she fought on, with all she had left,
She would give up, she had her breath.

It asked a question, it needed to enlight,
"Dear lady in pain, why do you fight?
There is nothing here now, no comfort no joy,
All is misery, all things must go..."

"All your friends are gone, you had a good life,
as daughter, as sister, as grandmother and wife.
Let it go, release the pain, and I promise you this,
I will help you along, to cross into bliss."

The old woman was torn, it begged to ask,
"Will I finally see them, those from my past?
Will I be alone on this journey? Will someone be there?
What about those I leave behind, the ones who care?"

It understood her pain, she was afraid to leave,
"You have earned the rest, my lady, a reprieve
Your time has come, its time to let go.
Give me your hand, this way I can show."

The woman raised her hand, full of fear,
She knew who it was that stood so near.
But gentle as a leaf, it took her hand,
with no effort at all, she managed to stand.

They drifted up and into the night,
one more delivered to the guiding light.
She left in peace, no harm to her soul,
and it drifted back down unto a new goal.

The Post Wherein He Says Something Sad AND Hopeful.

Due to INSANE rising gas prices, I had to stop going to my weekly poetry group session. I only went a few months, but damned if it wasn't helpful. As useful as it is to go to the group, I just can't afford the $40 price tag necessary to go there and back each week. Still, I would be remiss if I didn't give thanks to everyone there.

Walter - You taught me with age comes wisdom and perspective. Also, to never mix Jack Daniels with beer. Thank you. (P.s. You still look like a Beatnik. Seriously, turtlenecks with berets are out.)

James - You will be a fine musician someday, of that I have no doubt. Keep the faith and email me when your album comes out. First purchase right here. Thank you.

Sam - You write more poetry in one line than I could fit into three stanzas. You inspire me to be better, thank you.

Don't think just because I am no longer there, that I am not still working. Due to multiple sources telling me to do, I am going to try self-publishing on Amazon's Kindle store. Wish me luck.