Don-Calabrigo

 My face is cold, and wet, and warm, at the same time, and my split lip is stinging. I'm face down in a puddle, and it is turning cloudy from my blood. She's walking away, and he's walking with her, and I'm not moving as I watch them go. I thought I meant something, but clearly was a fool. As my front turns damp and the puddle starts to taste metallic, I think of my delusion, and wonder. I wonder if I ever mattered, if my gestures mattered, if my outpourings mattered, or if she had just gone along with it all the while, and then gotten tired of me and found an excuse. The puddle starts to turn salty. When I get up it doesn't feel like pushi

Why now, not later? What makes this moment the one? The world that moves around you? The stars, the moon, the sun? Or does it come from something else, something down inside? When you allow yourself to open and swallow up your pride? Then you see the truth of your mentality Let yourself feel that truth, and accept reality.

The rain poured dow, washing across the windows, streaking them, distorting the people beyond. He liked to people watch, but that was not why he had chosen the large chair near the windows. He was expecting a guest. A guest who was twenty minutes late, but he was a gentleman so he would wait. A gentleman or a shmuck he pondered, gazing into the dim street. It was just past midday but the gloom was so deep the streetlights were on, casting pools of orange light onto the pavement. A sigh escaped his lips as he drummed his fingers. He was too nice, he was taken advantage of. Any other jerk would have left by now, but no, not him. He rose, leavi

And what's to stop the valiant dead from coming after us, instead of going to their endless sleep, to hear no sounds save for a weep. Short hours before they knew feelings, went with us in our dealings, of debauchery and sin. They seemed to know we could not win. And now they lie in mangled heaps, the rain across their armour sweeps beneath the pale and sickly moon. Their judgement comes, no nay their doom

Pit, pat, pit, pat They come crashing down to earth, Bombardier pilots Laughing without mirth. They cannot steer, But have no fear, They find their targets still. Little suicide pilots, they never get a kill. These little devious terrorists Have an unassuming name, To most of us Who see them now We simply call them Rain

The sky is dreary, Overcast and grey. It must know that Summer Died again today

I have no wife to worry for me I have no son to carry on my name And I have no friend to support or comfort me I betrayed my loyalty long ago For he gave his life as I should have given mine But I was weak and stayed behind And now my hair grays All strength does drain from my arms My fire in my eyes extinguished I forsook a death in battle, for what? So I may whither and die like a fallen oak Devoid of glory and significance Alone in the skirts of Denmark Winters cold bite knawing at my soul My poor unworthy soul Grey as the skies pallor hue Withered as the last leaf O! Shimmering sword! I cannot live with the shame any lon

There you be, a fiery red With quick thoughts, inside your head The night-bird is thine only peer In academia no other comes near And stalks the forest floor unseen With coat of such a silky sheen Sets for prey an elaborate trap To catch them up with a sudden snap For you know the woods the best, of all The creatures on which God can call A messenger of the highest degree Nothing can bring halt to thee Thine priority cannot be swain Neither by snow, nor sleet or rain More able a critter cannot be found Above, upon or under ground. So I take the time to sit and think In my mind I see you wink As if to say your ways are true

There was a craftsman on the bus And he was not a gloomy gus Personable and friendly in everyway Always he had something amicable to say So long as he’d had a cigarette or two And a sip of extraordinary wine, his homemade brew He had silvery grey hair That was styled with a simple air His style was generally simple too A plain t-shirt, slacks and sturdy shoe His physique was good for his age, Befitting of his former wage Long years he’d worked until he tired Earning money for when he retired Working on projects he always will For he cannot stand to sit still Rosy cheeks he had and his skin was shaved To strangers h