Psyche

Psychologists are neither artist nor fool

nor doctor nor philosopher

they are a breed of astronomers

trying to look through the wrong end

of the telescope

at an array of dead stars

Rain on the Muskegon River

Truth is a fishless river

Anglers be wary

Overflows, dark soot, no eggs

Autumn Duties

Outside, mellow glass walled in

The world exposes a faltered glow

as hearts do beat I hear the sounds

of fellows steering through puddled roads

Walls warm, though still compelled

while thoughts tugged as though by string

to look among the fields below

ghastly steps twist days to dreams

Words spill across the keys and screen

spirits still, locked and cold

hours spent to ask and know

while life whirls on beyond my window

Breaking leaves off stems and fall

like sifting sand by nature's hand

Though fingers grind for future gold

today is lost indoors alone.

Golden Harvest Mason Jar

Stitched imprints on phial curves

holding frothing malted brew

against the fashioned oak you sit

my night revolves around its use

Nightly, weekly, weakened wills

do capture in your hallowed grin

though used to seal sweet boiled fruits

instead good cheer swills within

Kindly kiln the kindled days

which slowly toast my days away

pious piece of passive glass

let only I be lightly smashed

December Winters

I trench my feet in suede

which the snow will surely bite

The crass cold air will break my breath

spreading it thinly across the morning

Busy business awaits past the white walled highways

while December works well to wash routine

Underneath the sheets wife lies warm and waiting

as the frosted dawn peeks through the brittle shades

Shovels crack the caked wax cloudy water

pushed aside, pushed aside

Crack the car door gently, turn the key

Sigh amongst the wintered ice.

Hello, Sweet Mourning.

Hello sweet morning, behind my blinds!

You creep seeking eyes to find

Lying there i stir and toss

To capture dreams before their lost

Cloaked in slumber, soft and warm

I wish away the day's rewards

To lie and wait for two more days

Until the sun dims away

No ring nor bell can stir me so

To want another place to go

And as i slide into my head

I go to where to the neurons lead

A field a home an ocean shore

Where i may dance for hours more

My lighted mind doth oft' construe

A better life than what I knew

Among the sheets I spend my time

Living only half alive

For men of conscience must've shown

One must reap what they have sown

Yet still I rot comfortably posed

While rays doth shine through my window

Spilling in to wake the soul

Who misses what he'll never know.

Sweet Nothings

Let your mind be drenched in your surroundings

So you may drown in its bliss

Do not fade into the sweet fog of banality

Nor grow into anyone or anything

Be the saint who offends the holy

and a sinner who drinks from Poseidon's pond

Soak in the sun and breath on forever

Exhausting only your insights

May your life be a poem and your death a song

Let the soil sing your eulogy

For if there are no words within the earth you lay

Then sing the hymns of backward angels

As the trees whisper your fate to the sky

And the clouds plot their revenge

I ask you simply to drink down a plain

And forget that life ever began

Land of Salt-less Seas

The sun shines not from sky nor ground

but from the souls of youthful men

I splash and toss in summer lakes

to grasp a moment newly found

Near Lake of Huron I lust and pray

and soak in the sounds of bustling life

my skin become the silky night

for the sacred lies in the profane

O' heart of rivers travel low

to meet me in great salt-less seas

and when I see God in the gaps

I walk the seas glazed from the cold

From northern lights to suburb homes

I know no land more home to me

still splash in play til' bones are bare

while masses from the mitten roam

Flee afar to golden lands

ne'er shall you forget your roots

for mind, muscle, blood and bone

forever shall be Michigan grown