Missing Piece

Deep inside there is cleverness abound,

never calculating, never plotting, NEVER quiet

overtly obvious to all who care;

no one….

creativity spurred by adrenaline, nature, song

endorphins a necessity,

all that my pores soak up

once recreated with expensive red wine;

waiting for the brilliance to bubble to the top,

the inner voice

tugged me back to my seat

again and again,

and when I sipped, I slugged thirstily,

and when life entered,

I was too big to handle.

I still miss me,

but you could not live there in that place

the residence of the artist “upstairs”

that which must imbibe in absoluteness

to make the wheels spin slower,

quieter, more like you

I miss the artist galloping

on horseback

traversing the prairies, jungles, stretches of green,

 faster than you can say

“Crazy Lisa”





At 14 he told the same joke

Again, and again needing you

To laugh,

At sixteen she pleaded for you to love her

The way they love in books

Dedicated, like a Norwegian’s

Love for his lutefisk,

I wish I had learned to savor the goodness

To look the recurring nightmare in the eye

The good the wine has taught me Wins;

Lips visibly stained like a prostitute

The fourth glass was never the same as the first

Like a joke told one too many times