Move Along

Here I am dying

What an ass

A slow boiling egg

Ready for the pig

Could I express, exhasperate

Point out, point in

Shred my ego 

And find some kind of empty

Excuse

Write it!

No, no, no

NO

The words did come once

But now

We'll now sir I pout 

Like a coward

Watching the last plane 

Leave with my love

Let's wrap this up boys

Two parts one

I left you back with my other body

The great shade between

Here I am speaking to a great nothing

While something sings to my ear, come

Back to what is away

To there, where you have me, my

body is, inside of your mind is

Inside of mine

On my mind

All my mind

All my all

And yet

Here

I 

Am

Night crying

Real Tears are

So heavy whether

For joy or

Pain

They always repair

They always

Matter

Child rules

The most wonderous glory

That it is 

to have a child

comes from

The reflection of who you are

Untethered, unfiltered

One cannot turn away

They are

you 

Unchained

Ready

Note: This was published in the MATC magazine the Phoenix along with a few others of mine. Here is the link. http://matcphoenix.com/2010/10/18/ready/
and a few others of mine http://matcphoenix.com/?s=Nicholas+whitehead


Poised and ready,
He stood on the back of the couch,
Quite high when you take into account
The boy is only two.

But he is ready:
He’s had two whole years to practice.
As I walk into the room and see him,
He leaps.

A smile wraps up his face,
His eyes wide and aware.
I cannot be swift enough
To stop him or even hope to catch him,

But as I said
He was ready,
Born that way in fact.
Doc said it was quite strange but indeed true.

With such grace I might never see again,
Smooth as an Olympic gymnast
His feet find the floor
And he dashes into the kitchen.
For one second
My heart beat a thousand times,
No, a million
And wore itself out.

My boy
I can only hope
That the day you run short of ground
You have grown wings.

Built the Sky

It's about time
I lived inside time with
road rashed skin
bone and and flesh
left along the road of so
many times I forgot
the future is the wind
the suture is
a hand held
by a daughter
who thinks her father
built the sky

No Poem

I have not written a poem

I have not printed it, sold it, been sold by it

there has not been ink spilled in glory’s name

there have been no profound insights

         important distinctions or favorable descriptions

I have not been changed by this poem

         That I did not write

there were no new outlooks or dreams made clear

I have not danced with this poem

there are no beat words, no flowing of sublime reality

         nothing to hold on to

you never read this poem, I assure you

there were no comparisons to dead men’s ranting

         dead as this poem is

you are not reborn through my words

you, my friend, are exactly

                           the same

same as the dirt you forget or the iron that does not

         compose your will

same as same loves and has no name

there never was a poem

there have been no self songs, no fire or ice, no Grecian urns

no samurai who sing, no diamonds, no chimneys swept, no gods

no conversations about death

                          there are none

I am NOT better off, I am NOT a better man

there is nothing to ponder

there is no paradise

my 2 + 2 is still 4

I am still…

I have not written a poem

I have not written this poem

There is no poem