Father

Father, can you lift me from this edge?

The hands I felt, the grip would melt to a silver pair

But some time, in a place far from here, I fear

There’s a future where ambition is a shaking shivering stare

And you’ve lost all senses, but you taste those wasted years

Father, please forgive me so

I’d spend those nights, in the orchards, and write to a girl

I’d wait for hours, building her towers

And I’d find a series of stars for her balcony

All for those villa lights, below, and alone in the hills

Father, there’s an ache in my head

There’s a space in my bed, where I will not rest

I’ve gone for hours, the moon’s lost its power

And I’d rather sleep where the sky’s have no keep over me

Let me float from this edge, and over those hills

Strings

Wood, Grained, finished by itself without a voice,

But I will make it sing.

A day , alone a month un played,

yet it’s always ready to play my tune.

To turn words in vibrations

in effect to stir emotions

and to move hearts, and make smiles

even on rainy days.

For each pluck that is made

a painting is being painted

as an artisan tends to his craft

so as I stroke my own fire

because sometimes you have to fix things

that have fallen by the wayside

like an empty and abandoned house.

Newton Shmuck

They were roofers, brick layers, landscapers

they were the ones that broke there back

all for a lawyer named Herman Shultz.

with the sweat off there backs, the backs that broke

marrow giving way to the force of a schmuck

down on the Newton line.

Everyday from morning to late noon,

toiling over the abysmal tar, and endlessly rapping pipes in teflon

wile the ebenezer mulls over which working stiff he can take for a ride.

and wile that scrooge looks at his work and how far his money can go

those roofers, brick layers, and landscapers all wonder how long they can keep it

in their ripped pockets.

To say that for the day they must go back to their wives is a misnomer.

Herman will go back and spend the remainder of the night with a trophy

while the workers will go home and be fragile with those small bodies

may they go easy with there calloused hands.

Letter For Mary

It’s hard to believe what a feeling can do to you,

as it like a hand stretching across the straightened route.

something so distant and yet can reach across the distance,

and squeeze the happiness from me.

When will the hurt stop  I say,

like an addict looking and following the fix.

and just the same in for the minute, and out for the hour.

You light a cigarette. The one that the man handed to you,

you know he’s in the same place you are. his tie flaps in the direction

the wind itself decides to take it.

He’s in the same place, but a whole other country,

so he’s just that guy smoking a butt standing next to me,

who’s finding solace from a IRS employee. 

with the smoke and the rain, the rain damp to my bones,

smoke makes a thought pop and a vision take me away from the pitiful

IRS employee. I see you.

the dress, the flowing hair, the smell, a Lilly in a valley of thorns.

the rain fights to dampen me more, but you, are just so warm,

even from the 1,000 and more miles away I can’t hide from you.

the look of the less fortunate, I smile and know that all of us

hate to see you go, but love to watch you leave.

Mary you mine as well come to grips with it, 

there is little you would have to work for.

and for that you don’t have to stand by the curt

and sad IRS employee.