character sketch poem (what's next) anything

The Cat Lady
spoke in languages no one could translate.

the four legged feline retreats to under the sofa
there was no where else for him to go to
it was cold and rainy outside
the music wasn't attracting anyone of  his friends

the cat lady changed her pajamas
into her plaid striped clothes that didn't match
 her mind was split into two hemispheres mad and crazy ever since she went off her meds 2 years ago.
she was the chosen one
she fed her kingdom store brand cat food.
when they listened

Her house was handed down generations in her family
Crazy she was the only one left now

Her mailbox, out front, was full of bills
children would throw rocks at the windows

People have come and gone trying to restrict the sound and stench of her cats

 the cat commune was owned by the cat lady, who did nothing but instigate it by adding more cats

She was the spoiler in a community. The community that wanted everything
under asphalt for the tourists. While the cat lady watered the weeds



 

The Voice- dream delusion

She doesn't wake me
but I wake in mid afternoon
she's at work
and we talk about having kids
we can't agree on the gender
a friend of her's listens in
a small tear falls in both their eyes
the future will never happen
because all this is in my mind
freaky for the real if I explain
it out loud
yet she doesn't talk like that with anyone
dream delusion
we both disagree
dreaming standing up

untitled

In the light I fall short
In the lights I feel warm
the cold pushed me further
I am wrapped in open space
weeping at the appraoching winter
as an arm reaches for me
from the depths of darkness
I choose the light while it last

PURPLE CONVERTIBLE

My firend drove it
he was the middle child
of his family
and each kid got to drive
there was always an oil filter in
the glove compartment
that he can change at a moments notice
there was a hole in the floor on the driver's
side so you could see the street
shared the same color with the high school
we both attended
So
During the Homecoming parade
my firend had spirit

We would both stand up in it
while it was being driven
one hand would be in the air
and I would feel like royalty

I heard it survived the youngest kid
but then died when it was not longer needed

BUt that car was my first
convertible

Let me explain
it was the first convertible
I could ride in it anytime
I wanted to

Who To Trust

Early afternoon raining bullets
spotlight shined on all of us
We must be guilty
from confessing
our slip is hanging
dreams aren't bullet proof
the baby blues are a
cinical being
tired of shaking too many hands
networking for shade
four legged feline our only friend
to say goodbye
as the firing squad blows away with the clouds
the slight touch of another
redeemable human breathes
life between these lungs
that once debated getting out of bed
who to trust
who to trust
who trust 

The church without walls, but a sheltor from the rain

the people sing and cry out to be touched
God answers and touches the willing
The willing?
the outcasts and margin walkers
they feel the presence of Jesus
and the hair on the back of their neck stand up
they shiver as if they are cold
but inside feel warm like an embraceable new born
no walls but still a shield from evil
people outside question but cannot shut their ears
they inquire
how can the members be satisfied without fiances
"We feel humbled"
songs create an atomic boom
washing the surrounding communities
feeling only two words
"God's Love"
the invitations are infinite
and the services don't have
a beginning or ending
sin evaporates and disappears
sin falls beneath their feet as they all stand to rejoice
never growing tired
the spirit is nutrients
the spirit has no boundaries
and the church grows up and out

My Friend the Painter

I would ask my friend how would your capture thunder and lightening
the sky has sploches of battleship grey and white
mixing and covering the sun
thunder explodes halting your thoughts
like a surprise tap to the shoulder
rain descend splattering the page
shelter can only cover so much
so I go inside where the ink doesn't smear
the storm is filtered on a page of lines and on the canvas
I don't have the mind to capture thunder
the thunder like roaring ships
on a sea of storms
lightening like shots from the massive guns
rain falling like water from fountains in the sky
while the scuptures are the clouds
as the ship goes away at sea