Poetic constipation

I could not think of what to write. 

I put pen to page and had a fright

because nothing good came to mind. 

My endless words became hard to find. 

For whom do I write and what should I say?

For a poet to run dry is a very sad day. 

For whom do I write and what is my art?

I really hate this mental word fart. 

At least it was all just a dream

They crashed the glass; we screamed at them to stop,

but they just kept intruding, so we hid. 

I wound up in the kitchen calling cops,

but I did not stay put like Kristen did. 

Beneath the table, on the kitchen floor, 

I saw the long and sharp and deadly knives

and grabbed one. Creeping, silent, door to door

my fate was simple and laid out: their lives

were forfeit when they broke into our home. 

But would the Sheriff come in time? Who knew? 

With knife in hand, I'd make a stand alone

and keep this house protected from the crew. 

I found them all and killed them with great ease

and not a struggle came as I dispatched

the four invaders, pretty as you please. 

Police arrived, I knew I was no match

when they accused me: murder in the first. 

I plead my case but was denied reprieve.  

Insanity was my defense and curse

when I was instituted for belief 

that people in a home with family

have obligations to defend their own. 

If those who die are crippled mentally

then all my arguments are wrong it's shown. 

Because they didn't understand the crime,

it turns out I'm the one who is doing time. 

On the spot narration

The lovely bones upon the shelf

tell a story about myself. 

Gaping sockets and knobby knees

share a space with hips and teeth. 

I love my bones out on display 

amidst my large book array. 

While my fiancé races in a game

and sits and talks of life and shame

I lay and watch imaginary cars

and dream of broken, burning stars. 

Death and light and dark and life

make me an odd, eclectic wife. 

He loves me despite how weird

my opinions are on cats and beards. 

And I love him and his opinions too

because his are different and new. 

He fetches me juice in a Hulk glass

and I pretend that we have class

because its bubbly and fruity 

yellow and crisp. My cutey

goes back to racing his Chevy 

and I let out a sigh that's heavy. 

It's been a long day at church

but fulfilling and without a lurch. 

The evening comes and we race together

because as a team we can weather

any storm that comes our way 

as long as we take the time to play. 

For Tycho

The fires of the night glitter in your eye

and the rumbling of the storm is your cloak. 

Your footfalls are the padding whispers of death

but your silken caress is far more gentle. 

Your tail is a question mark and a balance

and you are the king of acrobatic feats. 

You know no fear of being made a man's slave

but the oddest provocations can spook you. 

You are a warrior, a comforter too,

and your clownish antics are in character. 

You dance and leap with great fervor and passion

but you pretend to not notice my pursuit. 

I am the dawn

It is night, and I am awake. 

How many wolves howl outside?  I wait for dawn and think. 

It is night, and I am troubled. 

How much is a soul worth? The blood of God himself.

It is night, and I am afraid. 

How many shiver, hungry  in the dark? Too many. 

It is night, and I am the dawn. 

the land of the young beyond the edge

In the land of Tir na nOg

the rivers of fire flow

betwixt the dustrish trees

from which the pollen blows. 

Beyond imagination's border

lies these fabled halls. 

Faerie, monster, troll and elf

all dwell within the emerald walls. 

The eyes of man cannot perceive

nor would wish to see

the horrible beauty of the land

called Tir na nOg by Bri. 

The dustrish trees grow long and lank

and settle in the dark

along the banks of Fire Falls

which homes the Diamond Shark. 

The pollen from these trees,

they say, will rot your eyes

by forming with a curious light

the shape of truth and lies. 

The things unseen in that dustrish grove 

are forbidden for man to know

because the man had banished them

from his mere and mortal home. 

In the land of Tir na nOg

Imagination is their queen:

She who blesses and creates

the horrid and stunning things. 

Her mountain palace, rife with gold,

houses more than splendor 

as every thought that man begets

will find their start and end there. 

The things that we create,

but banish as too silly

have gone to Tir na nOg before us

and and established their own city 

So are you friend or foe 

to the fair, far things?

Did you send them on a wonderful trip

or rip apart their wings?

In the land of Tir na nOg

river of fire flows

and deep within its magmous depth

the traitors to their art are thrown. 

Punctuated marks

Interrobang me.
Yell with a thousand questions,
or ask with fervor.

Interrogative:
A swirling, raised inflection.
Can I have your pie?

Stop right the hell now!
A screeching sentence halter-
Exclamation point.

No nonsense at all.
A vanilla little dot
Gets the point across.

A clause? Then pause, please.
The comma has its causes...
We sit still, waiting.

A breath held, wasted-
Frittered away, subtracted.
Dang that dashing line.

Reasons for colons:
Lists, examples, not much else.
Two periods stacked.

Semi-colons say
'A sentence almost just died;
the author chose life.'

Derpy Kittens

Me! Me! Me!
        Me! Me! Me!
The chorus unwinds
       perks ears
              gasps towels
and calls
  Me! Me! Me!
       as six little kittens
             cry for their mom

Just another Dahlia town waiting for a man with a smoking gun

This town's a fickle dame...

                             She'll tell you secrets, but never the truth.

          The mob is in with the cops, here, thicker than the smoke from

                                  some fat cat's cig. 

          She was innocent once.

                                They all were, before the lights seduced them.

            Now look at her...blood in her teeth and that cheap red grin.

      Her real crime was passion...all dolled up for the Ritz in hell, sweetheart?

She'll never answer.

    This town is a dangerous broad.

                  She'll grab you by the short hairs and laugh while you squirm...

If she feels kind you'll just get

a slug through the heart.

       That's where I come in.

                         This city is seductive.

    She'll draw you in with her looks and                                      

         her promises, but it's just some 

                    twisted foreplay before she dumps you out in the cold 

                                       without even  a 'thank you.'

            But I keep coming back no    

                      matter how many cold

                           shoulders and nights I spend walking these streets trying,

                    just once, to find out what truth really means. 

              Fast cars, fast women, pleasures are cheap and easy.

            She's got it all...except justice.

   That's my job, I guess. Just another

                                            Lone Ranger, but

                my only friend has one thing to say, and I prefer if he didn't shoot his mouth off unless

                                    that killing word needs saying. 

                                                                 It's night time in this city.

                                                                                             Has been for years...

                                                                                      but the dark can't hide what wants to be found.

                                                                         The innocent

                   can only call out for so long before some hard boiled sap takes a walk.

                                                                Yeah, I'll be walking for a while but it's good for thinking

                                                       good for hearing

                                                                 good for ferreting out the      

                                                                                things

                                                             that aren't always what they     

                                                                         appear. 

Sloe-eyed man

Eyes like obsidian pierce with a glance.

Smoldering looks that could cauterize wounds

surgically cut me apart to the bone,

stripping me clean of my past and my shame

Glances volcanic erupt at my touch. 

Wildfire hunger consumes me by night. 

Funeral pyre desires destroy,

burning like ash from the censer of love. 

All that remains is just cinders and dust,

fertilized soil of who I once was,

sprouting a new me that you brought to life. 

Eye like yours kill and create with a look. 

Childhood memories

Nighttime 

Oncoming traffic

A flash, a sensation, a glimpse

A blaring car horn

It fades

Dare the dawn

Dare the dawn on silvered wings

and roar above the sweeping clouds; 

turn and soar, then dive and swing

and make the angels proud. 

The engine's growling pleasure, 

above the world beneath the gray

itself left in silence and leisure

beneath the sacred display. 

These hallowed halls of lapis

call the airman's soul adrift

to investigate the bliss

of God's secret, creative gift. 

The lurking in the dark

Idle hands the watchman grows when hours long and fragile spread. 

Fair the maiden sleeps in sweet repose while dreaming of the dead

and darkly shadows within the wood grow with weight like lead. 

Long the hours beneath the silvered moon languish in the night 

where even bear and owl do shiver in their fright

of things that creep and slink and slither away from light. 

Dare the darkness before the dawn and forfeit safety's grace

and face the horrors of the shade that doesn't wear a face

and never again feel the sun or warmth of love's embrace. 

A warning well deserved

You told them all my presence there was death,

that I was like a wild bird that bites. 

You spoke of me with hate in every breath. 

How could you know that you were oh so right

in calling out the dangers of a girl

who reads and thinks and speaks her heart with ease?

I'm apt to send your little mind awhirl,

infect your thoughts with knowledge like disease

communicated by the touch of light

that's born through study of the world at large

and questions asked that starts the flight

of intellect. Ideas will rush you, barge

into your mind and force it open wide

and make you see and greet the geek inside. 

You know who I mean

She's the type that drinks your coffee with this sneer that says she could brew a better batch

but she never does. 

She's the type that wears a fake smile when she needs something from you she could get herself

but she never does. 

She's the type to judge your work and wish that she could fire you

but she never does. 

Shire time

Come with me to a quiet place

filled with a small, funny people

that doesn't know the dark of hate

Stop on by the Green Dragon Inn

and carouse with all the hobbits

Grab yourself a pint and a seat

Hear the tale of the Bagginses

'There and back again' as they say

To what and where and when we know

of dragons and mountains and gold,

of dwarves and elves and men so brave

of power, of wizards, and war. 

Turn the ages back to the past

when under hill and under stone

bravery still existed. 

Set your mind back to Shire time, 

to Bilbo and the Company, 

to Frodo and the Fellowship. 

Come with me to Moria's mines

and the dwarves who dug too deeply

and lost their homes and hoards and lives. 

Stop by the Misty Mountain halls

where Thorin son of Thrain once ruled

and reclaimed the halls from great Smaug. 

Hear the echoes in the deep dark

of hammers, picks, and forge bellows

and marvel at the dwarven works

That shield a steel class warrior

that fights against the orcish fiend

that bears the red eyed Mordor shield. 

Turn your face away from the sky

to the deep and dusty tunnels
to treasure hidden in the earth
to gems and mithril and silver.

Set your mind back to Shire time

to Thorin Oakenshield and friends

to Gimli friend of Legolas.

Come with me to elven forests
lit with golden luminescence
that sparks with motes of purity.

Stop in Rivendell for a while
and rest among the ancient groves
amid the kind house of Elrond

Hear the wisdom of the fair folk
and their tales from the western sea
where everything is forever

in the light of stars and moonshine
in the depths of pewtered forests
in the ancient western homelands.

Set your mind back to Shire time
to fair Arwen Undomiel
to the Lady of Lorien.

Come with me to Gondor's city
and marvel at the works of men
who built their fortress white and strong.

Stop a while at Rohan's expanse
and hear the horselords' wild charge
as they stand to defend so proud.

Hear the war cries of their armies
and the snap of their wind blown flags
as they amass for one last stand

against the darkness from the East
against the towers united
against the evils that threaten.

Set your mind back to Shire time
to Boromir the brave hearted
to Aragorn the one true king.

Set your mind back to Shire time
to the Hobbit's Tale: There and Back
to the Fellowship of the Ring.

How to make brownies in thirty five easy steps

Step one, turn on the oven. 
No, step one is to read the box

Step two is to gather your things

The oven is third. Set at a temperature. Guess if necessary. 

Fourth is to try and open the box. Beat as needed 

Step five: pour the dry ingredients into too small of a bowl 

The sixth step is to transfer your powdery mess into a bigger bowl. 

Pop the eggs in. Shells are harmless and add texture. This is your seventh step. 

Eighth is to mix. Make a mess. All good cooks make messes

Nine: shoo the dog from the kitchen. Chocolate is bad for him. 

Step ten is to hunt for your pan. Rummage until found. 

Cursing when you find it under the dirty dishes is step eleven

Wash the pan. This is step twelve. 

Skip the thirteenth step. It is unlucky. 

Grease the pan in a futile attempt to keep the brownies from sticking

Fifteen: go back and pencil in the number fourteen in the above step. 

Step the sixteenth is to pour the batter in the pan. Be sure to run your fingers in the leftover batter and taste for quality control. 

For the seventeenth step, place the pan ceremoniously into the oven. 

Set your timer for the eighteenth step and go relax. 

Read a good book for the nineteenth step. Or is this the twentieth since I told you to do two things in your last step?

Step the twenty first requires you to turn the television on. You'll be able to hear the timer beep, I promise. 

Respond to the smoke alarm with panic for the twenty second step. 

Feel free to use the twenty third step to turn the alarm off 

Twenty four: pull the dog out from under the couch to stop him howling. 

Go pull the brownies out for the twenty fifth step. They should be done now. 

Step twenty six is to not make a joke about 'char'-colate since puns are in bad taste 

Give the brownies to the dog to hide the evidence in step twenty seven. 

With haste, remove the brownies from the dog. Didn't we agree in step nine chocolate was bad for him? This is the twenty eighth step. 

Step twenty nine requires you to turn the oven off since it is a foul piece of witchcraft that turns food into charcoal. 

Thirty: dispose of the briquettes in the trash. 

Pity the trash can for having to hide your mistakes. Take out the trash for step thirty one. 

32: mourn the lack of brownies. 

For the thirty third step, contemplate trying again. 

Step thirty four: admit the obvious and go buy brownies from the store. 

Thirty five: take credit for baking them.