Under the mistletoe, he sat and waited
She saw him there and hesitated
He didn't look so handsome or so great
But she was no beauty, not a perfect mate

What the hell, it's Christmas time
She kissed him as the midnight chimed
She was surprised, as much as he
To find that it was good, a froggy story

Sometimes a frog turns into a prince
This story is proof, as evidence
Thirty years later, and they still kiss
She says that's the one, I'm glad I didn't miss

Locked in two rooms,
This house of cards is folding.
I sweep the floors clean-
You add to the never-ending mess-
It piles up on hoards of demons.
We locked hands- then let go.
My guilt is consuming me,
Eating up my blood-red heart.
I dream under star-filled skies,
And of lavender daydreams
Filled with sunflowers
And my shining luck of love.
I’ll never be the same now.
I took a bite out of Eden-
Reached too far into the tree of knowledge,
Ate the forbidden fruit.
My darling guilty pleasure.

Molly

Molly’s father was a drunk.
Each night, his mouth was full of vodka.
‘Straight vodka, as real men do’ Molly quoted me his stinky breath
over the phone the next day as if someone who doesn’t drink is less than a human.

He drank too much for no blood was flowing in his veins; vodka had replaced it.

Under the mistletoe
I find a guilty pleasure
I'm kissing a pretty Jane Doe
Give her two for good measure

The office party is rocking
Drinks flowing steadily
The cops at the door, knocking
We give them doughnuts for free

Just keep it down a little
The old lady downstairs is pissed
I think that she needs a diddle
Or maybe her mistletoe kissed

Hey, invite her to be here!
She might find old John is a blast
Give her a couple of beers
Maybe she'll start shakin' her ass!

The place my soul burns the brightest is located up North.

Land covered with fresh green earth glazed with drops of dew.

Miles of trees rooted in strategic lines in front of me.

The leaves catch a breeze giving off the effect of waving in my direction.

I always wave back.

No worry lies in the depths of these woods, no evil can penetrate this brain.

I wander freely along trails and construct new paths. The scent a wood stove fading behind me.

I roam until the sky falls black.

Humans like picked flowers,

The clock starts to tick,

One, two 

one, two 

Golden Steps to churn the pot
One day is a hit while the other is not

Solid foundation
Yet no stones on top

Thy grey steps destroy the pot
Clear sight, yet blind to the skies

Divine dining only to die
Thy improper method to cook

Half formed flakes of snow
like almost opened parachutes
spiral toward the ground
Splat, they die, melting
like the Wicked Witch of the West

The crows, already evil-tempered
envy the squirrels holed up
and plot revenge, for the first sunny day
Everything stops and I am aware
of the silence; forced by the shivers

Bedraggled pigeons, leave the wires
finding solace in the house of God
where the pastor forgot to nail screen
He is dozing by the fire, unaware of
the soft voices in the belfry

Plucking the strings her careful fingers
Mask the energy smoldering
Underneath her skin
She is wired and off somewhere in her head
She can’t speak
But she does sing
As the strings bend and twang
Like the wild trees swaying in tandem
To the side of the old grey house
Where inside a light green room
A sunburnt orange lamp flickers,
And the reel-to-reel tapes whir
Late into the night as her
Maple guitar makes the sounds
That give the colors in her head
The language they need

A grey-green wall of water
Flecked with creamy-white
Moves with a growly, steady speed
Undetected through the stormy night

Drowning, smashing, crushing
Obliteration universal
Don't think that you are special
It's really nothing personal

Mother Nature is having a tantrum
She's about to cry
Her winds swirling in a circle
The calm is in her eye

She knows what she is doing
Hell hath no fury like her
A perfect storm is coming, dah'ling
You're in for it, for sure