Rising Tide

My beautiful picture

If I could see the light
Above the hole that I have dug
If I could change my coffee
Into wine inside my mug
If I could walk on water
And escape the rising tide
Perhaps I would not smile
Upon the drowning

If I could gather round me
All the thoughts that make me smile
If I could only linger
In the laughter for a while
If I could rise above it
Finding hope beneath the clouds
Perhaps I would not smile
Upon the gibbet

If I could feel the pain
Inside the soul that I have killed
If I could only breathe
Inside the poisons I have spilled
If I could walk away today
Inside another’s shoes
Perhaps I would not smile
Upon the fire

If I could see the light
Above the hole that I have dug
If I could turn my back
Upon the alcohol and drugs
If I could fly to distant shores
And find one trusted friend
Perhaps I would not smile
Upon the drowning

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Unveiled 4

Painting by Betty Bell Sanders

Though her eyes were closed
She could still see forever
Far beyond the doorway
Where she stood
Unveiled to the world
To the angels
In her dreams
Bare feet drawing grace
From the wood

The wicker
The wood
The breeze of the morn
The sunlight
Soft gainst her skin
To feel the embrace
Of the love
In the silence
Washing away
Where she’s been

In the hues of the morn
She could still see forever
In the absence of time
Transposing the words
Of a story once told
A most perfect rhyme


Circumstance of Time

Circumstance of Time 1

Circumstance of Time

Time has danced its way
Beyond my grasp of what is real
But those of age and consequence
Sadly… still can feel

By circumstance and just by chance
Yes… I easily bruise
But those who tell my story
Never walked inside my shoes

He’s doing well they all may say
That’s just how the story goes
But the story behind the old man’s eyes
The story that nobody knows

Time may dance with circumstance
Though my eyes have never been clearer
Thanks for pretending you know who I am
But you don’t know the man in the mirror


In Morning’s Yawn

In Morning's Yawn

In Morning’s Yawn

He could not see the light beyond the moment
He could not feel the braille beneath his touch
The light down in the tunnel growing dim like twilight’s close
And fever from the rain was far too much
He reached for silver strings only finding tattered thread
Braided in a desperate search for truth
Standing in the vortex of a devastating storm
Raging through the shadows of his youth

He could not find his way beyond the moonlight
He could not blend the palette yon the dawn
But the moonlight always shined upon the hunger of the wolves
While his palette left its hues in morning’s yawn


My deepest gratitude to all of those who have
honored themselves serving their country…
with special respect for those who have
left their hues “In Morning’s Yawn”…
Sadly… humans have not learned…
This is not the way to put an end to war.

Universal Soldier



Shadows in Her Eyes

Painting 1

Painting by Betty Sanders


Shadows in Her Eyes

She opened up the window leaning arms upon the sill
Gazing down the street for what’s been lost
Twilight of the morning only shadows in her eyes
From dreams she left behind on roads she’s crossed

The rain had come and gone before the blush of dawn’s first light
Drops of endless thirst left on the vine
Footprints neath the window leading cross the rusted rails
From hearts with tattered strings that intertwine

Weathered wood… the shotgun house… ravages of time
Pearls of dew on lilacs near the door
She learned to leave to destiny the rhymes she could not change
But kept her secrets safe beneath the drawer

Never did her passion let her lose her faith in love
Never did she rue the star crossed child
Never did one fail to ask if life had done her wrong
But she’d just turn her head… and softly smile


Dust on the Parchment

Dust on the Parchment 1

Dust on the Parchment

I suppose I could write of the newborn spring
Of the daffodils…
Of the sparrows wings
But who would then write of the broken heart
The lonesome dove
When lovers part

I suppose I could write of lavender blooms
Of a soft gentle breeze
The scent of perfume
But who would then write of things gone wrong
Of the pouring rain
Of sad, sad songs

I suppose I could write of the runes on the wall
When rhymes were like crystal
In times we were small
But who then would write of the words tween the lines
Hidden in lamplight
In laughter and wine

I never should write of the truth in her heart
The light in her eyes
Fore it all fell apart
But who then would write from the blind poet’s pen
With dust on the parchment
To dust in the wind

by Michael33

Where Flowers Always Grow

where flowers always grow

Where Flowers Always Grow
             (A True Story)

I wandered in the backwoods
With the cougar and the crow
Where hobos shared their campfire tales
Where no one else would go

I traveled through the eastern woods
Hopping trains in early dawn
Smoking cigarettes in boxcars
Crossing lines that can’t be drawn

I hitched my way to the northern woods
Finding flowers in their hair
First taste of ‘knowing’ peace and love
While music filled the air

I flew into the northwest woods
On giant silver wings
Sailed into the deep blue sea
In search of silver strings

Drove white lines to the southern woods
In an aimless flight to nowhere
Still longing for what lingered
Deep beneath the seraph’s dare

I wandered through the backwoods
With the cougar and the crow
Where hobos shared their campfire
Where flowers always grow