The rooms of your life

Each idea you have about existence
Every thought you keep about life
The conceptions you have formed
In the house above your shoulders

They maybe tidy well kept ideas
they may have lamps that shine of the truth
But their shapes and amount of space
Say less of life and more about you

Those outdoor walls that you fear may be breached
 Your solid effort to protect your beliefs at all costs
This is not enough to maintain your lovely house
Or protect it from dishonest mouths and hammers

make yourself over in the room of love
For truth moves, falseness accumulates
Social convention is as destructive as a wrecking ball
it's roundness and power to divide should not attract you

Octogon moon

sweet night curving out the sky
Aromas of the trees bursting clouds silently
Cutting at the moon leaving it with eight sides
Shining moon in the sky, the cook in the kitchen

Daylights gone the sun has played
Our skin like ears to it's calling
now just the chirp of the night cicada
And the resting grass crickets greeting the moon

The edges of the moon emit light to earth
The wind has taken leave to discuss tomorrow with the sky
leaving us on this motionless earthen surface to delight in
the smell of the trees and fresh food from the kitchen

However the moon has edges
And they say eight
What mystery what confusion
On that celestial plate

A tasty lecture

There´s enough energy behind that
enough knowledge so far
You could give a seminar
You could show us something

Riding in on a dragon each light sweet morning
down to the auditorium, rushing, flying
I will evaluate life and the colors we see in living
All manor of mythological creatures will replace my adjectives

Shadowed room
You the "know how to do it" one
I the lectured
Out once more with that formal flavour

Lifes a grin and a dream
Love´s a life saver

Wash it in the word

I have my chilli´s, they´re superb
Wash them in the season
Wash them in my words
Grow them into bushes wet and dry through the day

I have my class
Wash it in the goal
Wash it in the language
Each word they utter

I have my bed
Now I wash it in my sleep
wash it in my dreams
Put my sore back down there

My life´s pretty clean
Cause I washed it in the words of this poetry.

Hope street mechanic

Wet meadows surround the road
freshening the world before town
Vehicle old but the land in it's youth
Riding into town like a birth

Sun invited by the mayor
Shop front grins
Wheels and gutters kiss
At the lips of driveways

Company signs exaggerate in color
Overalls drape down from the hips and filthy white t shirt
Of the oiled stained mechanic smiling up at the sun
In a town where people fixed things

The huge garage was mostly always empty
 For Every car that the mechanic fixed never broke down again
If it wasn't for check ups he'd have no work at all
Children would stay children for many decades in that town

And when you left town on the single same road you came in on
You'd feel as though you were doing something wrong
Betraying yourself
Regressing, even though your car was in the best working order ever.

Half the age

The reason you are where you are
Those wh questions rest on us and we carry them
Those questions about life
We can't sleep because those questions sleep on us

It's got a lot to do with philosophy and spirituality
But it's all to do with age
It's got a lot to do with mum and dad
But it's all to do with how old you are

Where and when are just bubbles
From the mouths of our doubts
Of our doubters
It's all happening even during the periods of fear

They'll tell you it's a question of maturity
How old do you have to pretend to be to be like that
Not the kind of pretending that brings a grin
But one that you've taken on as a current way of being

Half the age is gone out of you
It's got a lot to do with time gone by
About fun and boredom
Those hands that hugged the wall you dared to observe all to often

The stupid react

Those false friends that live in ego and reaction
Leaping out
The only real curse that incurs is the ego reaction
The weight of your worth being thrown on a filthy plate

Absent minded the anger gathers in the gall bladder
Makes it's way through organs like lightening
Out onto the street with it
Outrage whole, raw not sifted

Accumulated frustration
Brain function down to a minimum
The outburst looms
You can read the countdown on the man's brow

Conflict has jumped out of his clenched face
Laughter dragged it out
and mocking fed it and refreshed it
until it was a healthy monster

One simple comment owned the man's life for a few hours
The stupid react, consequences are distant relatives
Surrounded by the personal feeling of a grudge
Growing emotionally violent, blooming rage