D.B. Frank

Black Dog

2011-11-29T06:21:00.001-05:00

Wind driven rain
taps the window glass,
Beckoning, beckoning,
the time to help pass.

In darkest reflection
of times that are past,
the ending of things,
that never can last,

Tears that were shed,
and sorrow, too deep.
The black dog who hovers
about even in sleep.

Darkness of sky,
and clouds of deep gray,
beckon, oh beckon,
the black dog to stay.

The Home

2011-08-08T18:33:00.000-04:00

He sits on the porch,

most of the day,

watching.

They wheel him out,

to where he will stay,

early.

He's seen a lot,

the good, the bad,

all.

He cries at night,

so often sad,

still.

For those he'd lost,

so long ago,

yesterday.

His troops, his loves,

those he didn't know,

then.

No one visits,

this tired old man,

now.

The nurses smile,

and pat his hand,

sadly.

They know he was

a fighting man,

hero.

The medal lies,

on the oak nightstand,

forgotten.

Suffer the Children

2011-04-28T10:11:00.003-04:00

Having children is never an easy task. They get into trouble at the drop of a name. They run afoul of the schools by wearing clothing that is inappropriate (for them at least, as it seems the same outfit worn by someone else is permissible).
Sometimes a child has problems that are not of their making. Such is the case with our youngest, Peyton. She's been diagnosed with an 'as yet to be determined' mood disorder; ADHD; and anxiety disorder. This makes life interesting, naturally. Neither her mother nor I have ever had to deal with the myriad of issues that tag along with these ailments. Fits of uncontrolled anger manifest themselves with out warning every few months. All reason is lost when she gets into a condition like that. It took us quite some time to understand that punishing her when in the grips of such fits doesn't work, but makes things worse.
After treading many paths and many counselors, we finally got her into the Hershey Medical Center, where the counselor rendered a diagnosis and medication. These help immensely. She also got Peyton into the day program at Pennsylvania Psychiatric Institute in Harrisburg. This two week course teaches her how to handle the issues of anger, what to do, what to say, and how to react. They also contact her regular school for her usual work, so she won't fall behind.
Unfortunately, South Middleton Schools seems to have a problem getting the work to PPI. Plus, for a change SMS has been updating the on line records. This is something they've not been great at in the past, but now they're Johnny on the spot. Hence, since Peyton hasn't been in class, it shows her grades in several classes plummeting from As and Bs to Fs.
She reads these records on line, and it is not doing her self esteem any good. She asks "Why? Why am I bothering to go Mom, if it hurts my grades?"
Thanks, SMS, as usual for your bang up support. I expected no less.
To top it off, the lovely insurance company, whom PPI had to call every other day to get continued approval, has decided that Peyton has progressed enough that she doesn't need to finish the course. She is 3/4 of the way through it, as of Monday when they decided this. How do they KNOW she's okay? Why, a doctor who works for the insurance company reviewed her papers. That's how.

Give me strength.

Cheri and I decided to continue her courses, out of our pocket. Hey, it's only $500 a day, right? Her father should help pick up the tab, paying his half, right?
Uhm, partly right. We're paying; he's 'not able to right now'.

I can only sigh. I mean, it's only his daughter...

Neighbors are not much better, however. Peyton has befriended three younger girls up the street and has played with them for the last few years. She also plays with some of the younger boys across the street from the girls. Starting a few weeks ago, the girls' father has forbidden Peyton from playing with his daughters, going so far as to setting cones up in the street and instructing them to 'come inside' if Peyton gets beyond the cones and near his driveway. Mature.
Last night, the mother of one of they boys across the street ordered Peyton to 'stop picking' on her son and to leave or she'd call the police. Peyton gave her the 'thumbs up' and walked away, which earned her a cursing from the women.
Cheri had taken enough, and confronted the women. Suffice it to say no middle ground was reached, so Peyton has lost yet another playmate.
Shortly after this exchange, the doorbell rang. It was the father of the other young boy Peyton had played with. THIS father had brought his son down to apologies to Peyton for the things that he and the other boy had been saying. The rumor? That Peyton was crazy, and suicidal, and had tried to kill herself (untrue, of course). Ah, a man with integrity. A man with maturity. One who came down to get the facts himself and not from the mouth of sixth grade children. He too apologized and stated he would ensure that the other neighbors learned the real truth.
I just sigh. What ever happened to neighbors taking care of each other? What happened to adults acting like adults, and maybe TALKING to each other?

What happened to life?

Goodbye

2011-04-21T18:03:00.002-04:00

The man who was the boy shut the tailgate on the truck. The last item had been loaded, and the house stood still.

He looked toward the house, then turned to walk behind the barn. He strode up the ramp, overgrown with weeds. He noted that one whole corner of the barn was covered now with vines, and that the gutter was falling off on the same corner. He pulled the jackknife from his pocket and opened the blade. Instinctively, he put it between the door and the frame and flipped the latch hook up, opening the door. He had done this maneuver hundreds of times before throughout the years. He stepped into the empty hay loft and turned to survey the remains of the orchard behind the barn.

When his family had moved in thirty-six years ago there had been numerous pear, apple and peach trees. Now only six neglected trees remained. One had fallen over in the most recent wind storm. Beyond the orchard were the woods, 85,000 acres of Michaux State Forest where he had played and hunted, trapped and camped. He sighed.

The man looked around the loft. His brother had removed the ancient wooden pulley used by past generations to bring hay into the loft. Sunlight streamed through the cracks in the walls, and the wind stirred dust from the floor. The oak beams creaked and moan in the wind. He shut the door and went into the old grainery, where he and his brother had kept their trapping supplies. Now, it collected junk. Some wild animal had moved in, soiling the room with its feces He shut off the light.

He took the stairs into the lower part of the barn with well practice steps. He saw in his minds eye how the barn had been when they had moved in. The previous owner had cattle, and his parents, horses. Many itinerations of design had occurred before his father settled on this design. Empty now, only the spiders in residence. The man exited via the large door with the cut out of a cow that he had procured from some long forgotten food market.

He looked again at the house and went inside. The empty rooms were silent now, where once children had laughed and played. The living room where the Christmas tree always stood, lights above the pocket doors of dark chestnut. He fancied he could hear his sister speak, her voice light, a smile on her face. He saw again his brother, playing with Lucky the dog on the carpeted floor. His father called from the kitchen, telling him that supper was at six, and to get in there if he was planning on eating. He could smell the turkey dinner his mother cooked so lovingly each Thanksgiving, the dining room overflowing with family and friends. He looked out the picture window across the valley, and saw again the lights of so many small towns, winking in the summer night as fireflies winked Morse code to each other.

He walked to his old room, where he and his friend had played mumblety-peg on the old wooden floors. The room where he would sit, cigarette in hand, blowing smoke out the window in the hopes that his parents would not know. The room his father had turned into his office, until he passed away.

His own children had slept in these rooms when he had gone through his divorce. There had been love and hate, lightness and darkness, joy and sorrow all between the walls of this home.

He shut the door and went down the steps.

"Ready to roll?" he asked his brother. The brother nodded an odd look on his face. He felt it too, the man thought. All gone now, except the memories.

They can never take those, the man thought. He followed the U-Haul out of the driveway, never looking back.

Spring

2011-04-20T18:34:00.002-04:00

Spring field, lush green grass.
Lambs playing, running, jumping.
Life renewed, goes on.

CLEANSING RAIN

2011-04-05T06:44:00.002-04:00

Spring rain washes
winter's filth from the land.
As tears of pain,
wipe sorrow from wounded soul.
The sun soon will shine,
as smiles will come again;
flowers will burst forth,
as happiness will return.
Seasons turn,
as life's book is written.

Yellow Line

2011-04-02T22:32:00.000-04:00

Blacktop in the night.
Blood darkens the yellow line.
Body lying between the lanes.
Progress takes another life.
Houses now where forest stood.
Nature pays the price.

The Lesson

2011-03-23T14:11:00.002-04:00

Peyton, my 12 year old daugher, has been playing soccer since the time she could run and kick the ball. Her natural athletic ability outshines most of her fellow players. She has played on premier teams for most of her short career, most of the time in the hardest position of them all; goalie.

Her determination in the goal has earned her accolades from players, coaches, and parents - and not just her OWN team, either.

She plays with a determination and drive that pro players posses. That is HER goal, and no one is allowed to score in HER house. She charges out of the goal, laser site on the ball, and dives, kicks, tackles, or tumbles to stop the shot. She feeds on the 'shoot out'; one player against the goalie. Most goalies fear the shoot out; Peyton eats up opposing players and spits them out.

This year, she is in seventh grade, allowing her to try out for the school team. They have try outs to determine positions, who gets cut, and the like. However, just as they have for every year I can recall, NO players are cut. (The High School does the same thing. We've yet to figure out WHY?). So, there are approximately 40 seventh and eighth grade girls playing. The coaches split the girls into two teams; the A (or better players) and B (not so good players) squads.

They put Peyton on the B squad.

Needless to say, she was miffed. Angered. Steamed. As were her fellow players and most of the parents. How could the coaches not SEE what Peyton possessed? Whose bright idea was this? Add to this the fact that Peyton struggled and fought to get her grades up high enough so that she was eligible to PLAY school soccer, and this was a great slap in the face to her, a massive blow to her pride.

I expected her to quite, or at the least, bag her duties as goalie.

Her first scrimmage was last night, against a school who had a normal number of players. They played the A squad first, and beat our 'good' players 1-0.

Then they agreed to play the B squad.

By half time, Peyton had stopped EVERY goal that came her way. She had twisted her wrist, got it wrapped, and played on. She had collided so hard with an opposing player that she sprained her ankle.. and played on.

They pulled her out at half time, since the B squad was up 6-0 and put in one of the two 'good' goalies from the A squad. She had to stop one shot all of the second half. The B squad kept the 6-0 score and beat the team that had beaten the A squad.

Parents shook their head at Peyton's sportsmanship. She didn't quit, she didn't bag it, she played her heart out just as she always does.

Peyton - if only we ADULTS had your character, what a better world it would be. Thank you dear girl, for your example.

"And the little children shall lead them..."

Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep

2011-03-15T17:25:00.003-04:00

I'm the one you think of,
as head and pillow meet.

I'm the one that haunts you,
as you walk darkened streets.

I'm the one you fear the most,
alone outside at night.

I'm the one whose very name,
fills your soul with fright.

I'm the darkness that
steals your light,

I take the star shine
from the night.

I whisper to you
as you sleep,

I'll take from you
your peace, to keep.

I'm the shadow
on your face,

I'm the one
you can't out pace.

You tremble when
you hear my name,

You swear that I'll
drive you insane.

You hate me with
your very soul,

The faceless one,
the haunting ghoul.

You cry yourself
often to sleep,

As your head
and pillow meet.

Under the bed?
Or in the hall?

Waiting waiting,
for me to call.

The phone it rings,
will it be me?

Knock on the door,
you're afraid to see.

Who is it there,
in shadows black?

Is it the one,
who always comes back?

Fear grips your heart,
as you cry out,

A scream comes up,
you try to shout.

Nothing comes,
not one small peep,

Then nothing, nothing,
only darkness, deep.

SHADOWLANDS

2011-03-10T09:13:00.003-05:00

I see the things you do not see,
and oft I hear them too.

The things of dark that creep about;
you feel them stalking you.

You fear them in the shadowed place,
as sleep begins to fall.

You scream yourself awake at night,
when your name you hear them call.

You look away and will not see,
their hideous twisted form.

You think they've come to torment you,
that they come to do you harm.

Ti's not the case, I'm here to say,
a story they could tell.

Of shadow lands lost somewhere in time,
lying just this side of hell.

Of darkness lost in shades of gray,
Of tears and loss and sorrow.

They're loved ones gone away from here,
who'll never see tomorrow.

They wander 'bout in fog and mist,
their tears add to the gloom.

They stand outside our little homes,
staring long into our rooms.

They wish to join us by the fire,
they'd like to come inside.

They don't know that they're ghosts to us,
can't understand, they've died.

So lost in shadows they remain,
looking for a place to stay.

Lost souls they be, in shadow lands,
never see the light of day.

The stories that I hear them speak!
The things that they have seen!

Of life and death and here and there,
and all that's in between!

I jot them down in pen and ink,
on notes and pads and walls.

I cannot help but hear their voice,
to me they always call.

And I wish so much they'd leave me be,
they'd just pack up and go.

But I'm doomed to hear their plaintive wails,
of this I'm sure they know.

So they come to me most every night,
and beg for me to hear.

To tell their tales to those who read,
so I write and write for years.

I trust you read, and hope you know,
they want for you to hear!

They'd tell the tales to you themselves,
if you'd only let them near.

Bumps in the night are not all bad,
they just want you to see.

That once they were alive like us,
and have needs like you and me...

Celebrate ebook week!

2011-03-05T08:43:00.002-05:00

Ebook week starts 3/6/11 @ 12am PST. To promote ebook week, you can get a copy of NIGHT WHISPERS at half price.http://bit.ly/fk6KJO

The Drink

2011-03-03T20:01:00.005-05:00

A cold wind blew the sawdust on the floor,

as the night came in from the fast opened door.

And with it came in a stranger quite fair,

with wild haunted eyes and wind-blown hair.

To the bar he went quick with long staggered gait,

then halted and stopped, as if deciding to wait.

But wait was not what he had on his mind,

he called instead for a short glass of wine.

"Wine?" we thought, and some even spoke,

when on the bar top he tossed his poke.

Nuggets fell out of that ragged old sack,

and he reached out so slowly and gathered them back.

"Wine," he said, a wee bit too loud,

then turned right about his face to the crowd.

"T'is wine that chases back the night gloom,"

he said to all of us there in the room.

His clothes were worn, and ripped and thread bare,

his beard it was wild, just like his long hair.

His hat it hung from a long rawhide thong,

his duster was black, it too stained and long.

His boots were quite scarred, and covered with dust,

and while we all looked, he looked back at us.

The barkeep coughed loudly, which startled the man,

and stated quite clearly, "There's no wine in this land."

"No wine?" said the stranger in not quite a yell,

"I was not aware that this town was Hell!"

"No wine," said he as if to himself,

then pointed up high at the upper most shelf.

"Then that, my friend, that be for me!"

The tender turned the bottle to see.

"You sure?" he said, with a slight note of shock,

then turned to the stranger, and started to mock;

but paused when he saw the stranger's bright eyes,

jumped up on the bar, and to our shocked surprise,

pulled down the odd bottle, hopped off of the stool,

and turned to the tall man, standing there like a fool.

The thirsty dark stranger was quick as a wink,

grabbed up the marked bottle, quite ready to drink.

He tilted the bottle and threw back his head,

while the poor, shocked bartender stood with face turning red.

Not a word had been spoken by we on the floor,

as the stranger just guzzled, and guzzled some more.

At last we all figured he'd come up for air,

but he kept right on drinking, plopping into a chair.

The bottle went higher, till at very long last,

the container went empty; some minutes had passed.

With a sigh he removed it, then smacked his wet lips,

stood quickly and put his hands on his hips.

"Not bad my good gent, not half bad by far,"

and slammed empty bottle on mahogany bar.

He picked up the sack containing the gold,

removed a large nugget from within its folds,

Flung it hard from his hand to the man at the bar,

while a smaller one landed in the 'keep's glass tip jar.

He gathered his poke back into his kit,

winked once at us all, turned his head and then spit.

"G'night you dear fellows, I'm back to the night."

He belted his duster and stepped away from the light.

The dark closed behind him, breath came once more,

as we all stood and stared at the closed oaken door.

We never did know the tall strangers name,

where he had come from or the cut of his game,

But one winter night from out of the cold,

a wild one had come with a sack full of gold,

and despairing of wine, he spied some dark gold,

and had drunk straight kerosene to ward off the cold!

WHEN I DIE

2011-02-26T15:55:00.004-05:00

When I die,
I ask you this,
place on my lips,
a final kiss.

Hold my hand
just one more time,
to let me know
that you were mine.

And whisper low,
into my ear
the "I Love You"
I need to hear.

I ask you please
don't shed a tear,
for time is short,
and Death be near.

Just hold me close,
and tightly too,
and let my gaze
rest upon you.

You are my light,
my very soul,
I am so sorry
that I must go.

But darkness comes
on slippery feet,
and bekons me
his path to meet.

Soon now dear,
I'll have to go,
it pains me more
than you'll ever know.

To leave you here,
so all alone,
to miss me dear,
when I am gone.

The moonlight pale
in yonder sky,
please hold me tight,
I don't wish to die.

I tremble not
from the cloaking cold,
but from Death's own touch,
like ice, I'm told.

He pulls me close,
his face a mask,
but before I go dear,
once more I ask;

Before I pass,
I ask you this,
place on my lips,
a final kiss.

Hold my hand
just one more time,
to let me know
that you were mine.

Goodbye...

SUMMER NIGHT

2011-02-23T20:18:00.002-05:00

The smell of the sun,

baked into the sheets

by the Summer heat,

soothes his weary mind.

The breeze of the fan,

turning slow circles over

his bed, lull his senses

with it electric hum.

Night birds call from distant trees,

while shadows from the bats

chasing bugs in the streetlights,

flit across his walls.

The open windows allow inner heat

to be replaced by outer cool,

rustling curtains in symphony

with the whirring of the fan.

His eyes close, shutting out

the battle of the day,

relieving the glare of office lights

which clash with his mind, obliterating thought.

He drifts away, on tranquil currents,

dreaming of ocean tides,

and sand filled beaches,

waves of blue upon the shores.

Gulls cry in his mind,

replacing the songs of the night birds.

Tropical winds replace the draft

of the ceiling fan.

Hot island sun overtakes

the soft moonlight outside the window,

as he is refreshed, and carried away,

to places he'll never see.

If only for awhile,

he is at ease, rest finally

coming, to refresh both body

and soul, on a cool Summer night.

SUN

2011-02-23T06:47:00.001-05:00

The sun rises every morning,
it sets every night.
It cares not for me,
I cannot change its course.

It matters not to it
if I am filled with joy,
or filled with sorrow;
I am ignored as it travels.

Does it see me
as it journeys?
Does it look down
and smile?

Will it slow its way
across the sky
if I'm not on this
earth tomorrow?

I think not.
For man is but a speck,
a dot in the distance
to the eye of the universe.

The dirt is warmed by the sun,
but the sun cares not.
The plants grow in the light,
but the sun takes no notice.

Like them, we matter not
one man, one woman,
one child. We live a day
at a time, and then go.

Why then do we struggle?
Why do we push on?
Where do we think we're going?
What destination will we find?

The sun does not know.
The sun does not care.
It rises in the morning.
It sets every night.

We stand
in the shadows,
gazing at the heavens,
offering our feeble prayers.

I LIVE

2011-02-21T18:53:00.003-05:00

I live.
You thought me gone.
Broken, I stand here,
old and weary,
but not done.

You bent my will.
You twisted my mind.
You tried to take my soul,
but my heart
you could not find.

You mock me,
and I cry,
but inside;
for no tear
will leave my eye.

I wear
my chains
in honor, for
they show
the world my pain.

On the ground,
I lay still,
but inside
my heart
beats on, still.

Survive!
I do not wave
the flag of death,
for there are many
yet left to save.

My example
will shine
for others to
follow, taking
them out of the rain.

So go!
Leave me now,
I shall not
beg, for
I know not how.

Darkness
comes, bringing calm,
soothing my soul
softly as
a balm.

I live.

The Chair

2011-02-11T11:03:00.002-05:00

In the corner sits a chair,
a small boy perched upon it there.
His hair is short, his face is long,
pants or shirt he does not wear.

His back is marked, as is his face,
tears roll down and show disgrace.
He tried this time, he really did,
but once again he failed.

So belt and fist were brought to play,
upon the boy again this day.
He stifled cries and swallowed shouts,
so that the blows would slow and stop.

Though wounds may burn, and a sting is there,
it's the words of hate that lay him bare.
He feels shame, a failure he,
and wonders how to make them love.

He cries alone, though none can hear,
and listens for them to come near.
The darkness settles all around,
inside and out; he loves them still.

Night Whispers Promo

2011-02-08T05:54:00.000-05:00

Now on AMAZON

2011-02-02T07:10:00.000-05:00

NIGHT WHISPERS on Amazon.com

http://www.amazon.com/Night-Whispers-D-B-Frank/dp/1456522876

The book is published!

2011-02-01T12:25:00.002-05:00

My poetry collection, NIGHT WHISPERS, is now available for purchase.
You may do so at: https://www.createspace.com/3541836
Thank you for your support, thoughts, and prayers.

Night whispers

2011-01-03T19:17:00.000-05:00

Many times, his hand lay
heavy on my shoulder
as I gagged from his putrid breath.

He shadows me still,
waiting and watching,
his eyes bright, soft laughter on his lips.

Oh, how he rues the missed
chances! He curses the times
I slipped from his grasp, but he knows...

It is only a matter of days,
a few short nights,
not an eternity.

So he smiles,
wicked teeth gleaming,
as he lurks in the night.

I hear him whisper,
my name like poison
flowing off his tongue.

"Soon," he says, in
the voice of the serpent,
slow, sultry, seductive.

The Abyss

2010-11-11T20:32:00.002-05:00

The voices call from the abyss,
calling me by name;
and if I should give in to them,
I'll never be the same.

Darkness tries so very hard,
it's quest, to beat the light,
and drive it backward, ever back,
till it lies just out of sight.

I think a bit 'bout joining them,
for they sound so happy there,
as if they had all just dropped out,
and left behind all care.

A sigh escapes my blistered lips,
a tear escapes my eye,
I turn away from the very edge,
and gaze on blasted sky.

Today I'll not be leaping in,
today I'll just walk on,
from setting sun, into the dark,
ever on, till rising dawn.

HURRY

2010-11-10T06:02:00.001-05:00

Being concerned in going so fast,
I missed everything that blurred as they passed.
My children's first steps, their little league games,
All for more progress, all for more gain.

I hurried and rushed to work every day,
toiled and sweated to bring home my pay.
I never once paused, I never once rested,
I worked and I worked, coworkers I bested.

Till I noticed one day as I stood all alone,
my house it was paid for but the children were gone.
The wife was away with her friends on a jog,
the only ones home were me, and the dog.

I had gotten the goods, I'd lived it up high,
and now? All I loved had waved me goodbye.
Silence and emptiness all were around,
I'd squandered it all for one piece of ground.

And I cried; alone.

Familiar Paths

2010-11-06T21:12:00.000-04:00

Have I walked this path I see?
Where I go, there have I been?
Familiar steps and kindred spirit,
wait for me on yonder hill.

Chimney smoke and horses neigh,
the tangy smell of fresh cut hay,
piled high there in the mow,
are tender to my heart strings still.

Crisp Autumn nights, stars overhead,
piling covers on cool beds,
all seem like thing done before,
in past events I've done.

Lying on verdant hillsides,
watching waves lap from sea tides,
tanning faces turned toward sky,
as warmth is soaked up from the sun.

Laughing, playing, springtime days,
burned leaves fill air with smokey haze,
Oh I know I've been here before,
why must I take this path once more?

What lessons must I now repeat,
what bitter fruit must now I eat,
to learn or teach, which one which one?
Why do I trod trails seen before?

Disease

2010-11-03T20:08:00.000-04:00

This disease is not so readily seen,
though from time to time I mumble;
My malady hides out of sight,
though often times I stumble.

Voices wander through my head,
and I answer them quite often;
Anger bubbles up and out,
and the words I try to soften.

Whispers haunt me in the night,
and whimpering I hide;
I hate the man who sobs out loud,
so I fight the pain inside.

Cowering in the shadowed room,
sitting in the dark.
Sometime a laugh, sometimes I shout,
sometimes I even bark.

Oh someday I may be alright,
perhaps I'll be just fine,
The electric shocks will quit I hope,
and they'll give me back my mind.

Falling

2010-10-25T19:31:00.000-04:00

Falling, falling,
pitch darkness around,

Blacker, blacker,
the night does surround.

Dream upon dream,
come faster than light,

Scream upon scream,
renders the night.

Tears bring tears,
wetness from eye,

Madness brings madness,
so he wish he could die.

Waking oh waking,
or so it does seem,

finding oh finding,
it wasn't a dream...

Randomness

2010-10-09T22:10:00.001-04:00

Dog's sleeping on the couch,

wife's sleeping in the bed,

I'm sitting here just chasing,

way ward thoughts around my head.

'Bout people gone missing,

and loved ones moving on,

of things from oh so long ago,

that are mostly dead and gone.

Like manners from the children,

and friendships that always last,

to government that stood for us,

many years now in the past.

Of God and all His people,

who were one so long ago,

why'd she eat that apple?

I guess I'll never know.

What lies beyond the star shine?

What beckons from the dark?

What tragedy or happiness?

What life will make its mark?

And why have we been placed here,

upon this big blue ball?

And why do I go thinking,

of all these things at all?

I should have died a dozen times,

but yet live on do I,

to think and stare into the stars,

that shine from that dark sky.

What purpose do I serve here?

Why do I trundle on?

What bright and wondrous things

will I find with each new dawn?

Sleep it finally takes me,

but thought it rumbles still,

of a mighty lighted beacon,

that shines from yonder hill.

Seasons

2010-10-05T19:09:00.000-04:00

The seasons all turn,
and each has its time,
you will have yours,
I will have mine.

Days in the sun,
the darkness of night,
seasons of hate,
brightness of right.

Lives to be had,
to run and to play,
then all of a once,
all taken away.

Man's time is short,
upon this blue ball,
as season of summer,
hastens to fall.

Saying goodbye,
is hard at its best,
it turns doubly so
when a Love's laid to rest.

Remember the good,
inter then the bad,
remember the great
and good times you had.

Shed sorrowful tears,
weep late into night,
grieve oh your soul,
for that is alright.

Loss be so hard,
for those left behind,
but hearts shall all
heal, if given the time.

Rest in peace then
old friend, father and kin,
with hope that someday,
we'll all meet again.

Monday Rain

2010-10-04T06:40:00.000-04:00

The rain on the blacktop

reflects the headlights

like an ebony mirror.

He drives East,the darkness

a welcome companion,

as his mind drifts on.

This is not the

destiny planned for him,

he understands.

He's squandered the years,

passed now and gone,

like the water under his tires.

Too late now,

turning back is an option

no more, only another day ahead.

He drives into the rain,

his mood dark and damp,

something the wipers can't whisk away.

Travelers

2010-09-21T08:19:00.000-04:00

We are all just travelers,
going from womb to grave.
The path between is but our chance,
some other souls to save.

Once we stop and understand
that all of us are lost,
we tend to help each other out,
no matter what the cost.

Pastel

2010-09-14T11:34:00.002-04:00

The pastels from the rising sun,
light the hope with-in,
that with the new dawn,
troubles will be done,
and joy shall come again.

Of day and night

2010-08-24T06:57:00.000-04:00

The daylight banishes you from my sight,
though sleep brings haunted dreams;
till day and night blend into one,
with neither what it seems.

For darkness brings a light of love,
if only for a while,
when hands were held and eyes were bright,
and day was in your smile.

Daytime lived in dreary steps,
like zombies in the light,
countless hours of drudgery,
as I work on toward the night.

Curse the day,
with the sun so hot,
smiling faces passing by,
while my own face is not.

Curse the love,
seen on the square,
couples caress with starry eyes,
while for me you are not there.

I long for dark,
and blissful sleep,
where you will be,
and love so deep,

That never will
it tear apart,
banish then forever more,
the pain of broken heart.

Come now night,
thoughts of the bliss,
of your face once more,
and the sweetness of your kiss...

Dream on

2010-08-12T09:14:00.000-04:00

It is only the dreams
unfulfilled, that keep
him going.

Only the hope
that the future will
be better.

Just the next day,
pray, that it will
improve.

The farm he wants
though the years
pile up quickly.

Soon though,
the dreams themself
will vanish.

And so too
like morning mist,
his will to go on

Will vanish,
and the fate he
knows is his

Will visit,
dark cloak
and scythe

Ready to reap
to reward him
for what he's sown.

A life of naught,
no peaks, just valleys,
full of darkness.

Fade

2010-07-08T18:44:00.000-04:00

What be that you hold,
clutched in your hand,
could it be the heart,
ripped from my chest?

Beating still,
love alive there,
though flickering,
soon to be gone?

With tears did I wash
the soul you tore asunder,
with cries I tried
to make it whole, once more.

Sadness touched
your face, though
no tears coursed
a path down your cheek.

No smile in your eye,
no light there,
just dullness, lost
hope. Go! Depart!

Leave me to my pain,
keep the heart you
so cruely obtained,
only to cast it aside.

I shall lie here,
in the darkness,
feeling the rain pelt
my face, mixed with tears.

Words fall
on unhearing ears,
cries begat
more cries, unheeded.

Flee from this place,
the last refuge of the fool,
caverns bored
in soul-less forms.

Turn from me!
Leave me now,
as was your plan,
too late to turn back.

Harsh words flow,
scathing venom spews,
love turned bad,
the cruelest type of pain.

Let me fade away,
into the night,
as darkness
envelopes darkness.

Tears and Time

2010-07-01T14:04:00.000-04:00

Tears fall,
bathing broken heart,
as memories,
flash by,
a kaleidoscope of good times.

Gone now,
fleetingly here and gone,
mere moments in time
when hope had held
out for a lifetime.

Sleep evades,
darkness taunts silently,
sobs the only sound
pillow clutched
tightly to chest.

Hope seems
distant, but those
who have gone before
consul for patience,
for hearts do mend.

Not possible,
it feels like death,
a piece of soul torn
asunder and thrown
aside, and trampled.

But hearts
are resilient, given
of God, able to mend
and learn, grow
and move on.

In time.
Time heals, leaving
behind memories of
happy faces, no tears,
smiles, and love.

Lest we forget - the Greatest Generation

2010-06-22T19:27:00.001-04:00

Of storms and gales,
the stories and tales,
told of by the men.

All gathered 'round
the bars of town,
from times that might have been.

Of ships now gone,
of planes past flown,
of battles lost and won.

To tired ears,
from yester year,
of lives now mostly done.

We owe them so,
who long ago,
fought so we'd be free,

In nameless spots,
some mear map dots,
in desert, fields and trees.

We see old men,
we cannot ken,
the things they saw or did,

Who fought and died,
who bled and cried,
not older much than kids.

To keep us free,
both you and me,
for flag and soil and shore,

Soon to be past,
their toil done at last,
forgotten to days of yore.

God bless you all - thank you.

Movin' on

2010-06-04T20:07:00.002-04:00

While he lived,
the world moved on,
technology came,
that he could not grasp.

From the AM radio,
in his old work truck,
to the MP3s his grandkids
listen to, earphones on their heads.

From propeller driven
airplanes, to a man
on the moon and
space shuttles.

From hard wired
rotary phones,
assisted by a person,
to cell phones in a pocket.

Cars with 400
horsepower engines
running on leaded gas,
to electric cars that make no sound.

From the American dream,
of a home and land,
kids and a future,
to the American nightmare.

From honor, respect,
and manners,
driven home at the point of a belt,
to kids with smart mouths and no fear.

The future looked
bright, when his father
came home from THE war,
now, anarchy looms on the horizon.

He sighs and smiles
at those gathered 'round him,
seeing the past,
and blows out the candles on the retirement cake.

Summer stream

2010-05-31T19:11:00.000-04:00

The babble of water,
over rounded stones,
foam running downstream.

Still pools below,
shaded by trees,
a place of fisherman dreams.

Daylight burns
mist from shores
laden with dew.

As the first
fly is cast to
the waiting few.

A rise,
a dimple,
a strike and a miss.

Another cast made
to the rings
from the hit.

Then a shape
rises from depths
down below.

The fly disappears,
line tightens fast,

downstream it goes.

The battle is short
the trout,
landed fast.

A smile lights
his face
and then a new cast.

Soothing sounds

of water,

nature's fast balm.

Washes away

harsh thoughts

and brings calm.

Night herd

2010-05-23T14:34:00.001-04:00

Flashes of light,
against clouds of grey,
light up the land,
with the brilliance of day.

The rain falls in torrents,
puddles form on the ground,
as the night watchmen,
circle around.

The herd it is restless,
the storm brings them fright
as cowpokes ride slowly,
in the gloom of the night.

Thunder roars a grand trumpet,
lighting throws a great flash,
in the blink of an eye,
the herd makes a mad dash.

Cowboys yell loudly,
toward the camp the herd turns,
while the cook and the rest,
flee from the campfire that burns.

Leaping and running
to the horses the spring,
while out on the prarie,
wild voices do ring.

A slow footed younster,
falls in the mud,
as the hooves of the herd,
turn the ground there to blood.

Chuck wagon tossed up,
like a ship on the sea,
as the top is whipped off,
to float on the breeze.

Voices carry outward,
into the storm,
wranglers turning the herd,
preventing more harm.

With morning comes calm,
as the sun rises red,
the cow hands talk softly,
and bury their dead.

Mounded graves mark the places,
where good comrades fell,
now their riding in heaven,
or more likely, hell.

Nightly slumber

2010-05-21T21:02:00.000-04:00

Dusk falls silently,
as the chickens find their roosts.
Bats skitter across the sky,
seeking dinner for the night.
Whippoorwills cry from
shaded tree lines,
and the night creatures
emerge from their dens.
Deer come out to feed
on corn newly sprouted.
Stars begin to show
in the light gray sky.
The smile of the moon
looks down upon the land,
home lights wink on,
one by one.
Families open windows
letting in cool breezes
that drive out the heat
from the day.
Television images flicker
out into the night,
and the creatures there
take pause.
The day is done,
night is come,
and the world prepares
to slumber.

The Bridge

2010-03-31T08:09:00.000-04:00

Weary from the journey,
he pauses, the bridge rail
cold under his hand.

The city lights sparkle
on the river's surface,
like diamonds in a band.

The horn of a boat,
lonely and forlorn,
calls across the night.

He sighs and turns,
from the water to
look at the overhead light.

Moths flit about it,
darting and flying,
no purpose have they.

Tears come now,
freely at night,
hidden by day.

A mess, thinks he
of his life, as
it now stands.

What is to be,
what is the purpose,
of his life, thinks the man.

In one fell
motion, he pivots
and vaults the rail.

The final action
of a weary man
born only to fail.

The Bath

2010-03-13T20:33:00.000-05:00

He looks at the vein,
pulsing in his wrist.

Inviting, tempting,
blue under the skin.

So close, so easy,
just a quick flip

of his fingers,
a slash, up the arm.

Then to lay back,
in the warm bath water,

resting his head
on the cool vinyl

as the warm water
turns red,

as his warm body,
turns cold.

He taps the blade,
idly on the sink.

Tap, tap, tap,
as his mind wanders.

There would be no pain,
at least until his heart

struggled in his chest,
and breath came short.

He could handle it,
the minor pain.

Less than the pain
he has endured to this point.

The pain of neglect,
the pain of wanting,

the pain of being hated,
taunted, chastised.

Classmates and teachers,
family and strangers.

Not one understands,
not one cares.

No one sees his tears,
no one feels his pain.

He draws the bath,
hot water on his skin.

He turns on cold,
so as not to scald himself,

And laughs at the irony.
Too late, he things, much too late.

He drops his clothes to the floor,
enters the tub, and shuts off the lights.

Then, later, the lights go out,
all over; the pain ends.

Doze

2010-03-08T19:45:00.002-05:00

There is a time,
right before sleep,
when the impossible,
seems utterly plausible.

When the mind
wanders through
things it knows to be false,
but seem so true.

Be there power
in those times,
if only we could
tap them?

What if we could
tend to the spirit
we know is there,
right before slumber?

Oh! To harness
the entire power,
brought forth as
sleep claims us!

Dozing brings revelation,
as Galileo knew,
cat napping away
and rising to discovery.

What change could
we bring forth,
if only we could
bring these to fruition?

It is there,
with in each of us,
a tool, given of God,
whose use we know not how to wield.

Their Land

2010-03-04T20:39:00.000-05:00

He hears them,
the voices,
calling from the trees.

They're in the forest,
the mountains,
near the streams.

"It was our land,"
they claim.
"We loved her."

"Our lives were
tied to her,
our prayers were to her."

"She gave to us,
unselfishly,
and we thanked her."

"Then you came,
in your tall ships
and your wagons,

with your axes,
your saws,
cutting and burning."

"You took from her,
giving nothing back,
more and more and more."

"Generation upon
generation, child
after parent,

you took
and stole
and raped her."

"Now, you lie
in the filth
left behind."

"Waste clogs
her streams,
smoke her air."

"She has no
more to give;
she is exhausted.

Yet you live,
like an endless
supply still awaits.

"Awaken, and see
the legacy
you leave your children."

"We loved her,
once; she can return
to her splendor."

He hears the
voices, and feels
their tears.

Dark times

2010-02-23T18:56:00.002-05:00

He sits often in the dark,
surrounded by thoughts,
best kept from the light.

He wonders at what has passed,
and dreams of what may soon be,
should man not divert his path.

Anarchy seems so close,
such a possibility,
as man ignores man.

Greed, as wealth
is chased and
lives ignored.

Governments who favor
those who can pad pockets
and keep them in power.

God ignored in the quest
for power and goods,
as possessions posses those who bought them.

He sits in the dark,
and looks out at the stars,
and dreams of what may someday be...

and prays.

Lonesome Rambler

2010-02-18T18:19:00.003-05:00

He has been
the lonesome rambler.

Traveling long,
no place is home.

He wanders on,
across the mountains,

Solitary,
and alone.

No one there
to call his name.

Yet he listens
just the same.

Lonely echoes
of a song

Once he knew,
now long gone.

Whistled tune
upon the wind

Never to
come back again.

Saddened eyes
brim with tears.

As he thinks
of wasted years.

Over time,
and distance past.

Memories
that do not last.

Of a girl
who once he knew;

Emerald fields
coated with dew.

And forests green,
for which he longs

Distant times,
and distant songs.

Onward ever
he shall go.

To places that
he does not know.

Ramble on,
Ramble on.

Tracks

2010-02-16T06:32:00.000-05:00

Tracks in the snow,
outside my window today.

Small, almost a straight line,
but undefined and indistinct.

A cat, perhaps?
Fox or raccoon?

I don't know,
they are too old.

Something visited,
while I was away.

Perhaps looking
for food

or a quick hello,
a smile or wave.

They came from
the parking lot

and circled around
to it again.

Gone now
like times past.

Missed opportunities
for friendship,

for laughter,
for companionship.

Soon to be gone,
melted into time.

Like so many

tracks on my heart.

Aches

2010-02-12T19:29:00.000-05:00

The aches return,
each morning,
as he rolls from his bed.

He stumbles
to the sink and

splashes water on his head.

Bleary eyes try
to focus in the overhead light,
harsh on porcelain white.

He dresses
and leaves into
the new days beginning light.

To his job,
a joke of pain,
like his joints.

He puts in his time,
and despairs of life,
wondering at the point.

Futile, futile
his mind tells him
each day.

Yet he staggers
on, hour on hour,
earning his meager pay.

Back home,
alone, the dog
the only one there.

He microwaves
dinner, turns on the tv,
and flops in his chair.

The beer goes
down smooth,
the dog at his feet.

Only one more,
then his minds slips;
he nods off in his seat.

Only to do it
all over again,
by rote.

A never ending,
lonely song
of jagged notes.

Dawn

2010-01-27T06:22:00.001-05:00

Up before dawn,
stars overhead.

Driving to work,
he should be in bed.

Sleep did not come,
for him once again.

He wonders how long,
before all this will end.

A job he abhors,
with people he hates.

He hurries through traffic,
so not to be late.

He'd wanted so much
one time in the past.

He's amazed that his life,
has moved on so darn fast.

Is it me, he oft wonders,
am I to be blamed?

Is it me that does not like
to play this damn game?

Are others at fault,
are they the ones wrong?

He shrugs his slumped shoulders,
and turns up a song.

Does it matter at all,
he wonders in time.

If it is their wrong,
or if it is mine?

The results are the same,
in this life he is caught.

Working and working,
quite often for naught.

His soul feels empty,
his days fleeing by.

Sometimes in the darkness,
he wishes to cry.

Yet he drives every day
down this highway of gloom.

He sits in a cubicle,
he sits in a room.

He answers the phones,
and the emails too.

And wonders and dreams
of what he would do...

If he could only change it,
if he only knew how...

Time

2010-01-26T10:55:00.002-05:00

We calculate time,
is enough,
that we have it in
endless reserve.

We put off things,
like fishing and playing with kids,
tomorrow, or next week,
or next year, endlessly.

Then we wake,
one day, to find
the time has gone,
the children grown.

We sit alone,
the flickering screen
of a TV, and regrets,
our only companions.

And we marvel at
how fast the time went,
how old we have become,
and wish for more.

Time.

Miss

2010-01-17T20:00:00.001-05:00

I miss the woods
that began where
our fields ended.

I miss the porch
where I swang
on the porch swing.

I miss summer nights
where cool breezes
from the mountain blew.

I long for sitting
in the old apple trees
watching the deer at dusk.

I miss fishing
as the hot summer sun
sank below the horizon.

I miss the feel
of good ground under
my feet was we worked the rows.

Days gone by,
fleeting youth,
rushing into old age.

Where daily struggles
replace carefree days
and restful nights.

Where paychecks
become more important
than a day filled with play.

Drinking from garden hoses,
playing in the driveway,
wandering the fields...

all are gone.

Dimness of sight

2010-01-13T20:11:00.001-05:00

He shuts off the
television and
opens the book.

Hard to read now
that his eyes
are going.

The words,
black on white,
turn to dots.

He does the best
that he can,
as he was taught.

His father
a hard man,
expecting perfection.

In everything,
from reading
to building;

cleaning or
cooking, drivng
or eating dinner.

He sighs,
and pours over
the tome, slowly.

After time
he closes the cover,
only ten pages in.

Once, the entire
novel would have
been consumed,

in one sitting,
dry branches for
the fire of his mind.

No longer.
He puts his
glasses back on

calls to the dog,
turns off the lamp
and shuffles to bed.

Another day
gone, one more
stone placed

in the walkway
leading from one
existence, to another.

The Darkness of Despair

2010-01-12T16:05:00.000-05:00

The cold metal taste
on his tongue
makes him wonder if he'll taste
the powder and lead.

His hand shakes,
rattling metal against teeth.
Sweat runs from his brow
though he feels hot.

He wishes there were
another way; any way.
She'll cry, he thinks,
but be okay, in the end.

The insurance will pay,
not in full, but some
saving the house, getting
the lights back on.

He sighs heavily,
his head swims; his
thumb tightens, and
the tears come. . .

A click. That is all.
No pain. No sound.
No taste of powder,
no leaden taste.

He pulls his hand away,
looking at the tool it holds,
he still shakes. Nothing. It is
clean, except for the saliva.

He rotates the cylinder,
shocked to see the chambers
empty; each one a telescope
showing the far wall.

And it is then he realizes
that she knew, and emptied
it, probably throwing the shells
into the Dumpster out back.

He rises and checks the drawer,
where the gun was kept.
finds her note, which says
"Too late - I love you."

He chokes back a sob,
and rushes downstairs,
to her room, throwing open
the doors, hitting the switch...

He sees her on the bed,
prone, as if in sleep,
empty pill bottle on one side,
empty Vodka bottle on the other. . .

COLD

2010-01-11T19:33:00.003-05:00

The cold seeps in
past the tattered coat,
through the layers of papers
and plastic, chilling to the bone.

She shivers violently,
unable to stop, shaking
her teeth rattling against each
other, biting her own tongue.

Blood seeps down her chin,
freezing as it goes, a trail of
red against the frost that has formed
on her face, frostbite deadening her pain.

Tears freeze on her cheek
as she thinks of the life
she once had, the pearls
and cars, the wine and men.

Gone now, as they must
when one lives the fast life,
using others as pawns, spending
like there were no tomorrow.

Tomorrow comes, though;
it sneaks in on silent paws,
creeping in the dark, ready
to pounce on the unsuspecting.

And then? Ah, and then
the debt is due, to be paid
in full, no loans left outstanding,
and some payments are dearer than others.

Gone now, all gone,
the houses and cars,
the trust funds, the servants,
the men and warm furs.

Leaving only the bitter cold,
the wind, cutting deep,
the pain of memories past, and
hope grown as cold as the body in the gutter.

Existence

2010-01-07T06:25:00.000-05:00

He gave up on life,
trading it for the charade
of an existence.

The dull monotony
of doing the same thing
each and every day.

A family who tolerates him,
a job he despises,
a future that is more of the same.

His life had been spared,
once, long ago,
twice or more, perhaps.

For what? He thinks.
For what reason? He cries
out; there is no answer.

Just the tedium,
the grind, the daily
ticking of the clock.

Each minute
slices another piece
from his soul.

No one understands him
not his wife, his children,
nor his God.

His spouse thinks
his respect is lacking.
The children laugh at him.

His coworkers mock him.
And his friends?
What friends, he thinks.

Gone, like his
hopes, vanished,
like his dreams.

He talks to the dog,
who feigns interest,
in return for treats.

He pets the cat
who will sit and purr
as long as his needs are met.

Respect? Understanding?
He gives them out
as best he can.

It is hard to give back
what he lacks himself;
what he has never had.

It may be him,
of that he knows,
something missing inside.

The darkness
he feels
always present.

Lurking there,
under the surface,
snarling and mean.

He'd fix it,
if he knew how;
it's easier to just exist.

So he rises in the dark,
as dark and cold
as his dreams.

Each day,
every day,
and goes on.

Existing.

Dusting

2010-01-06T08:39:00.000-05:00

Snow glistens,
just a dusting,
on the blacktop.

Trucks turn it
into ice,
and cars skid.

Ditches fill
with mangled
metal, broken grills.

Harsh words
fly from
cracked lips.

Tears fall
from red eyes,
freezing on cheeks.

Cell phones
call spouses and
insurance agents.

Thoughts of
lost money
brings despair.

A wife sobs,
while her
husband berates.

The leaden
sky laughs,
and spits sleet.

WIND

2010-01-03T18:58:00.000-05:00

The wind, the wind,
always the wind,
blowing, sighing,
rattling the frosty window panes.

Gusts shake the house,
swirling the snow
hiding the fields from sight,
scouring the siding of the barn.

Cold, she throws more
wood into the stove,
stoking the flames
higher, the better to fight the chill.

The wind screams,
sending sparks and
smoke back into the room,
and tears run down her cheeks.

Enough! Enough!
She cries through
her hands, her face covered,
her thoughts a jumble.

The wind laughs
at her plight,
and blows harder
as she crawls to the corner.

She puts a fist in her mouth
to fight back the screams,
as the windows rattle,
and the barn door bangs.

The tree in the front
crashes to the ground!
Dishes fall from the shelves
breaking on the floor.

She whimpers. Her man is gone,
out in the hills,
out in the storms,
looking for the herd.

Alone, she cries,
only the wind and the
glow of the stove,
to hear her.

The wind, the wind,
always the wind!
She screams into her hand,
as she throws open the door.

She yells into the night,
trying to out scream the wind,
and fails, the wind
whipping away her words.

She screams louder,
running into the cold,
the darkness of night,
the wind slamming the door behind her.

Swallowed by the night,
her shape disappears,
the sounds of her screams
blown away to the South.

The wind! Always the wind.
Silencing her screams,
under the blowing snow,
forever.

Cowboy's Journey

2009-12-16T11:58:00.001-05:00

The wind and the snow,

blowing so hard,

sends tumbleweeds skidding

across the ranch yard.

His pony stands hitched

ready to ride,

as he steps from the warmth

and comfort inside.

He pulls on gloves

tugs his hat low

swings into the saddle

and murmurs “Let's Go”.

Darkness engulfs

rider and steed

as they leave the ranch

off to their deed.

As he sways in the saddle

he sings a soft song,

for the distance is great,

and the journey is long.

“Stand firm you old doggies,

stand firm where you are,

keep yourself steady,

like yon distant star.

Miles and miles we'll

travel alone,

till someday our Maker

calls us all home.”

The sagebrush crackles

under shod hooves,

and snow showers

change both of their looks.

They head to the hills

where the cattle they roam,

many long leagues

from warmth and from home.

A slippery boulder,

a twist in the trail,

and horse and his rider

go head over tail.

He picked himself up

but Old Dan was too still;

he could tell he was gone

on that snow covered hill.

He grabbed up his gear

and looked to the sky;

he decided it was too cold

for a cowboy to cry.

He started to sing

and he sang that old song,

for the distance is great,

and the journey is long.

“Stand firm you old doggies,

stand firm where you are,

keep yourself steady,

like yon distant star.

Miles and miles we'll

travel alone,

till someday our Maker

calls us all home.”

He crested one hill,

as cold seeped to the bone,

and he scanned the distance

for a light like at home.

Onward and onward

he fought his way on,

falling and fighting

his way to the dawn.

He arms were like lead

and his feet they were froze,

his fingers were blue

as well as his toes.

The cold finally got him,

he fell at sunrise,

and he heard a soft voice,

to his great surprise.

A warm arm embraced him

a figure in white,

who came with the sun,

from the darkness of night.

And the figure was singing,

his favorite song...

“for the distance is great,

and the journey is long.”

“Stand firm you old doggies,

stand firm where you are,

keep yourself steady,

like yon distant star.”

“Miles and miles we'll

travel alone,

till someday our Maker

calls us all home.”

December night

2009-12-13T19:48:00.002-05:00

The ice pellets
tap against the glass
seeking entry from the cold.

Fog forms on the windows
letting the people
know of the chill with out.

Mist hangs above
the snow covered
fields, shrouding the trees.

Headlights glisten
off the ice coated
brush, diamonds in the night.

The wild things seek
shelter where they can,
burrows and dens bekon.

The people stay
inside their homes,
snug in their warmth.

The holidays are near,
and homes twinkle with
lighted cheer.

Trees show in widnows,
bedecked in silver and gold,
angels sitting on high.

Fireplaces with stockings,
wreaths on doors,
menorahs lit one candle at a time.

The cold outdoors
cannot win out
over the warmth of the heart.

Ride the High Lonesome

2009-11-13T22:16:00.002-05:00

He rides the high lonesome,
he rides it alone,
he ventures and journeys
miles from his home.

He sails the wide oceans,
and battles her seas,
he wanders the world,
do as he'll please.

By saddle and schooner,
his travels he takes,
he goes further and further,
with every turn that he makes.

The darkness is welcome,
the loneliness fine,
for he battles the demons,
that pillage his mind.

Friends are not needed,
nor wanted it seems,
when his life is spent fighting,
the haunts of his dreams.

So he constantly wanders,
no place calls he home,
he's doomed by his devils,
the dark world to roam.

Onward and onward,
to next hill or wave,
a quest of adventure,
if his soul he will save.

Battles are constant,
though bloodless most time,
for they're fought in the solitude
of his poor, tortured mind.

At time he will cry out,
when no one can hear,
from sorrow and weakness,
from sadness and fear.

Rest he'll not have,
till in death he doth lay,
when devil and God finally
bring him to bay.

So he rides the high lonesome,
he rides it at will,
he strives to outrun them,
and the demons to kill.

His efforts are futile,
they're always in vain,
for the devils that haunt him,
have made him insane.

He rides the high lonesome,
from his hospital bed,
for the battles he wages,
are all in his head.

Alone he will ride on,
alone he will die.
No one wil miss him
and no one will cry.

For the wives

2009-11-12T20:13:00.000-05:00

She's up late,
most nights,
comforting a
worried kid.

Laundry calls,
and dishes again,
sitting on the
counter.

She gets to
bed later than

she should
midnight come and gone.

The alarm goes
off, long before
dawn, and she is
up again.

Rousing kids
from bed,
animals tended,
laundry in the washer;

Dishes washed,
yet again, shower
and a bite to eat then
into the car.

The road waits
as she heads out

to her thankless
day job.

Five hours
of hard labor
fly by, and then she gets
to fight traffic home.

Another load
of laundry,
a quick sweep
of the floors;

Drier now
for the clothes,
kids are home,
run to soccer;

to the library,
a friends house,
maybe a game
or the pool.

Dinner now,
husband home,
he's been gone
twelve hours;

and needs to head
to work at his
second job,
and she's alone, again.

She cries herself
to sleep sometimes,
wondering where it all
went, the time

her youth, her hopes
and dreams, the plans
she'd made, oh
so many years ago.

The man knows,
even if he doesn't
understand, most
of the time.

He is, after all
just a man,
but he knows one thing;
she is his hero.

Heroes take on
many forms. Military
in a fight, rescue
workers, lives on the line.

Or wives, who
give up dreams,
who never put themselves
before their family.

He loves her
more than she can
ever know, and he hopes
someday, she finds her peace.

The Stone

2009-11-09T20:55:00.003-05:00

The black stone sits
at the end of the row
sunlight reflecting from
it surface in a sheen.

Grass blows in the
soft breeze, leaves skip
across the surface
brown mixing with green.

There's a cowboy
on a horse, etched
into the stone
white on black.

The man sits alone,
leather chaps warm
in the sun, leather
jacket on his back.

One leg curled under
him, he enjoys the
warmth of the day,
after the night's cold.

He sighs and stands
looking at the stone.
He walks slowly to it
and sits, feeling old.

His fingers trace
the drawing on the stone,
the surface hot
under the sun.

His eyes water a bit
and he wipes them
on his sleeve, cursing
till they are done.

His minds drifts
and he recalls
days gone by
words spoken long ago.

He sits for awhile,
speaking softly
arm resting on the stone
then he rises to go.

He climbs on the bike
a different horse,
one of steel and
chrome.

He turns to the
stone, says "Goodbye
Dad," fires the bike
and heads for home.

Old Stone Wall

2009-11-08T18:44:00.000-05:00

The old stone wall has stood
sentinel at the farm,
watching the traffic turn from
Model T Ford to those from Japan.

A time wheh horse and buggy still,
went by from time to time,
the car traffic meager, none
most days, except for the milk man.

The old Petersburg Road,
abandonded, could still be seen
winding around the old barn
out the drive and by the wall.

It has looked out over
the valley for over 80 years,
seeing factories built,
fields cleared, orchards gone.

Houses have sprung up
where once forest stood.
Roads where only trails were
when it was built.

It has guarded the home
and families who lived there
from the dangers of the
road and traffic there on.

Old itself, the wall now
shows its age, mortar worn,
stones needing replaced,
weeds growing in it.

Like the farm, disrepair
shows, lack of care
is apparent, but
still, it stands.

Testament to a time,
when there was pride in work,
pride in appearance, a simpler time
when life was slower... now gone.

ButterBean

2009-11-03T06:04:00.002-05:00

Her tail wagged,
when they saw her.
Her eyes lit up,
and her nose quivered.

She jumped into
their arms, full of
love and hope
and promise.

Warm and cuddly,
soft and loving,
she knew that
she had found home.

She grew up
on the farm,
going where her
people went.

Her warmth and devotion
something only a dog
can give, showed
how much she loved.

Years of fun and
caring, days in the sun,
a lifetime filled with
a wonderful kind of fun.

The end arrived,
as it always does,
but she spent it
with her family.

The love and care
never stopped,
and she waits for them now
at the gates of heaven.

Ready to play,
and chase the ball,
and lick and jump
and give her love again.

Bonfire

2009-11-02T06:52:00.002-05:00

The smell of smoke
from the fire,
as children roast
dogs and marshmallows.

The chilly night air,
forces the parents
closer to the flames,
as the children laugh.

The driver of the hay wagon
calls to young and old
to climb aboard and cover
themselves with blankets.

The ride pulls away
as parents slink into the dark,
lying in wait to scare
them on their return.

Hot chocolate and smores
after the ride,
the moon full overhead
the stars bright.

Finally home bekons,
children tired and cold,
parents glad for a night
out of the house.

Time with friends
as one season ends,
perhaps not to be seen again
until next year.

Hospital Bed

2009-10-30T07:37:00.000-04:00

"Turn your back"
the man on the bed
tells him.

He turns away
while the man
relieves himself.

"Okay" says the man.
He turns back to him
sitting there.

The man looks pale
and worn,
older finally.

Cancer had done
what children and hard work
could not do.

Lines etch his face,
his mustaches is gone,
victim of the chemo.

"This thing is kicking my ass"
the man states.
He nods back to him.

"You'll beat it Dad"
he tells the man,
who had never been sick.

Never missed a day of work
who fought off every illness
every bought of flu.

"I don't know"
came the reply.
"It's hard."

Shocking words from the man,
the strongest man he had
ever known.

They chatted a bit,
small things, mostly,
of no consequence.

He turned to go, finally,
talk exhausted,
the hospital depressing him.

"Son?"
he heard as he turned
to go.

"Yeah Dad?"
"I'm proud of you son.
You're a good man."

He choked on his tears,
a lump in his throat.
Praise from his father.

A hard man,
from hard times,
praise was rare.

"Thanks Dad.
I love you."
The man looked stunned.

"I.. I love you too."
They both smiled.
"See you tomorrow."

But tomorrow never came.
Instead, the call.
He was gone.

They didn't know why
it just happened.
No recovery, death had visited.

Then a blur of funeral

and friends, family

and sorrow.

And now, years gone
by, he still thinks of the man
every single day.

Tears, sometimes,
not for the man who
is at peace,

But for himself,
for the emptiness
he feels.

And the void in his
life that no one
else can fill.

Autumn morning rain

2009-10-28T15:20:00.002-04:00

Blue black sky,
of low hung clouds
drizzles cold rain on
the mirrored blacktop.

Taillights arc on
the highway,
neon lines of
light into the darkness.

Autumn morning of grey
no dawn, only
the gradual lift
of darkness.

Shapes turn into
objects, visible
through the drops
of rain on the windows.

People and cars
as workers plod
to their jobs
in a last minute crush.

Horns blare and
tempers flare,
shaken fists and
harsh words to start the day.

Traffic dwindles leaving
only those who have
no agenda, no hope,
except to kill another day.

The day begins
as the last ended,
with cold and rain,
darkness and work.

Progress I

2009-10-27T16:28:00.000-04:00

The acid rain falls,
on the dead leaves,
As smoke rises from the factories,
on the edge of town.

Cars and trucks
on the interstate,
spew poison grey
and thick.

Spreading filth
along their path,
where children play,
becoming sick.

Cattle stuffed with
chemicals,
poultry crowded in their
lightless barn,

Seed engineered by man,
diesel tractors planting
endless rows of death,
on the corporate farm.

Family farms once thrived
where row on row
of countless
cut out houses stand.

While banks forclose
on family ways
all due to the greed
of modern man.

Where now are
the plains of,
the buffalo, the wood
where deer should stand?

What have we done
for progress that
warrants this
blight upon our land?

As God is our Father,
so then is Earth
our Mother, and yet
we soil her very soul,

So that we can build
and cut and slash
and burn so another
city there can grow..

We call it progress.

Winter's Kiss

2009-10-26T18:42:00.000-04:00

Winter's kiss is in the air,
as stars shine
o'er head.

When snow will fly,
and all will wish
for summer warmth instead.

Fire's glow and heavy
clothes and skis and boots
and sleds.

As laughter flows
and children yell
and faces glow bright red.

Ice is cleaned
and skates strapped on
and pucks fly to and fro.

Couples skate
hand in hand
and love itself does flow.

When night time falls
and folk retire
inside to warmth and drink,

They share the day
of a day lived full,
of life lived to the brink.

Though cold can seep
and snow will blow
and ice will come to play,

There's nothing else
as full of fun
as a blessed winter day.

soccer girls

2009-10-25T18:32:00.001-04:00

The field is full,
of teenage girls,
running to and fro.

Kicking the ball,
and chasing it down,
where ever it may go.

Cool winds come,
as the sun goes down,
"Play on" come the call.

Such is the game,
as it is played,
teen girls and soccer balls.

Losers walk,
with shoulders slumped,
at the final whistle blow.

To warm cars,
hot chocolate, kind words,
and parents who know,

How hard they play,
how much they care,
the work that they put in.

Every night,
and every time,
in their willingness to win.

Tears

2009-10-24T20:14:00.001-04:00

He stands and cries,
outside the circle.

His back is turned,
so they cannot see.

The torment would
be worse that way.

Again he hears them
call the names.

Fat, four eyes, ugly,
cow and worse..

He hears them all,
they all hurt.

It's the same each day,
the jeers and taunts.

Recess is no fun,
there's nowhere to hide.

They find him & tease him
until he feels sick.

No one does anything
to stop them. No one cares.

On the playground,
the cafeteria, the bathroom.

It goes on and on,
and he cries, every day.

Then one day,
it stops.

Because he isn't there
in school.

Enough is enough,
and he stops the pain.

He cries no more;
now the tears come from others.

Fleeting thoughts

2009-10-23T21:40:00.001-04:00

Rain tapping at
window glass,
asking for entrance.

Cold wind in
the trees,
killing the leaves.

Geese on wing
flying low,
looking for rest.

Sounds of crying
out back,
as something fights.

He stands there
looking out
at the night.

Looking for something
out there
in the distance.

It's not there
in sight,
but lies hidden.

On the very
edge of
the mans thoughts.

Just out of
his reach,
can't be touched.

It can be
sensed there,
and that frustrates.

Just about where
it can
be finally seen.

Then it is
gone quickly,
out of reach.

He turns away
sighs and,
shuts the night

Out by way
of the
heavy closed door.

Indian summer...

2009-10-22T20:20:00.001-04:00

Indian summer sky,
stars shine bright as
the sliver of moon peaking
out from whispy clouds.

Lady bugs gather on
door frames, gathering
in groups, seeking the
warmth found inside.

Crickets scurry along
the wall, chirping their
songs for mates and
man to hear.

Blackbirds roost in
the tree rows,
rustling and calling
till sleep comes to them.

By the brush pile,
something white and
stealthy moves, a 'possum
looking for dinner.

Autumn has come,
and the promise of winter
is in the air, as cool
breezes stir the leaves.

Autumn Woods

2009-10-21T18:22:00.001-04:00

Autumn air stirs memories,
of past days spent,
with loved ones along
the wooded trail.

Quietly along the paths,
family together,
the wood alive with
the sounds of life.

Squirrels playing among
the fallen leaves,
preparing the harvest
for winter's wrath.

Frightened deer running,
pausing once out of sight,
knowing that man would soon
be on the hunt.

Family members talk
in hushed tones,
as if they are in
an open air cathedral.

Perhaps they are,
for they feel the presence
of God and His hands,
as first they touched the earth.

The air, brisk and cold
the slight breeze and the smell of leaves,
mist upon the wood, rising like
the Spirit, reminding of days past.

And he sits alone,
except for his thoughts
of those distant days
and loved ones gone.

Ebony knights

2009-10-20T11:29:00.001-04:00

I watch the crows fly.
They know their purpose,
their way and path,
what they are to be.

Simple needs of food,
and shelter, of a mate,
of warmth and safety,
and gliding on ebony wings.

Sunshine on black feathers,
blue - black tones as they gleam,
circling the dump that is
next to my office.

They don't question why
they are here. They don't worry
about relationships, food, shelter.
Their days are what they are.

Existing, no fears, no
sleepless nights. They do
what they do, day by day,
and fade into the darkness of night.

2009-10-19T13:25:00.000-04:00

The ambulance arrived,
across the street, silently
at about noon.

After a bit, they wheeled
out the woman who has
lived there for over twenty years.

With no lights, no sirens;
they pulled away in a cloud
of diesel smoke, and were gone.

The house sits empty now,
looking sad, and forlorn,
like my heart.

2009-10-18T19:53:00.000-04:00

Leaves fall and rustle,
as they bound from branch
to ground.

Settling lightly,
they slowly coat the grass,
their time over.

Watching out the window,
I see the squirrels running,
and hiding in the piles.

Recalling days gone by,
when I too played in leaves,
with my children, grown and gone.

I think of life, and death,
as the leaves fall,
the cycle complete.

Darkness

2009-10-16T20:01:00.000-04:00

Darkness rises,
overtakes thought,
pushes reason aside,
as it bubbles out in harsh words.

Limits, there are limits,
when reached, or exceeded,
cannot be reigned back,
and damage is done.

Darkness, ever present,
hiding, lurking, brooding,
growing, just waiting for
the boundary to be passed.

And in time, it is.

D.B. Frank

Black Dog

The Home

Suffer the Children

Goodbye

Spring

CLEANSING RAIN

Yellow Line

The Lesson

Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep

SHADOWLANDS

Celebrate ebook week!

The Drink

WHEN I DIE

SUMMER NIGHT

SUN

I LIVE

The Chair

Night Whispers Promo

Now on AMAZON

The book is published!

Night whispers

The Abyss

HURRY

Familiar Paths

Disease

Falling

Randomness

Seasons

Monday Rain

Travelers

Pastel

The pastels from the rising sun, light the hope with-in,that with the new dawn,troubles will be done,and joy shall come again.

Of day and night

Dream on

Fade

Tears and Time

Lest we forget - the Greatest Generation

Movin' on

Summer stream

Night herd

Nightly slumber

The Bridge

The Bath

Doze

Their Land

Dark times

Lonesome Rambler

Tracks

Aches

Dawn

Time

Miss

Dimness of sight

The Darkness of Despair

COLD

Existence

Dusting

WIND

Cowboy's Journey

December night

Ride the High Lonesome

For the wives

The Stone

Old Stone Wall

ButterBean

Bonfire

Hospital Bed

Autumn morning rain

Progress I

Winter's Kiss

soccer girls

Tears

Fleeting thoughts

Indian summer...

Autumn Woods

Ebony knights

Darkness

The pastels from the rising sun,
light the hope with-in,
that with the new dawn,
troubles will be done,
and joy shall come again.