Art Verses

If Art

If art is beauty

(beauty in the eye of the beholder)

and beauty is truth

and the truth will set you free


follow the muse

and tell me what you see


 The Folk Artist

"The proletariat

serves as a mirror to the literati

Look within them

and see yourself

regardless of your makeup

Wax no poetry

upon that which you yourself

did not stoop to create

Stop talking

And do"


Prowling for poems


I reminded me of myself once

Alone at night walking the streets

A boy prowling for poems,

Waiting for my stalking imagination to strike

I saw a shadow,

I turned, it was gone,

My boyhood fleeting behind me

Then I knew, as one boy to the other,

This was a game of chase,

So I turned my back

and prowled for poems,

whistling when the shadow returned


O Poppa

For Ray Bradbury

O Poppa, forgive me,

I have forgotten how to live!

I have forgotten passion for practice,

Love for anxiousness

O forgive me!

I once followed you through the rows

Of libraries,

Tripping scrambling, madly dashing,

Stumbling upon

Oz Pogo Captain America Tarzan

Sherlock Holmes Edgar Allen Poe

The Hardy Boys,

The wars of my grandfathers and my father,

Kinsey’s photography, Crane’s poetry,

Erotic and comic fiction

And look at me now –

A modular man, a transient man,

A creative curmudgeon,

An ass not as wise as Balaam’s,

All hand cramped and writer’s tongued


Has corporate America done this to me?

Has the stifling House of God done this to me?

Has technology, or my overbearing responsibilities?

Nay! I say, nay!

None but I have killed this inner boy I loved so much,

Wild and curious boy he was

That ran naked through the mountains of Washington

With a handmade spear,

Searching for tales and life and joy,

A boy known for his tales sought from his friends

O Poppa, forgive me!

Twixt the dueling father figures of light and darkness,

I have become lost in the gray spume

I have let the heavy cape of darkness

Smother the little boy’s tender shoulders,

With no humor or even cigarettes

O Poppa forgive me!

Now I will take your hand and let you guide me

Over the fields of the sun and moon and beyond,

Through stories so vast I cannot articulate them,

I will begin before I quit,

I will go forth with joy unceasing,

I will remember you even as I burn you on a pyre,

O poppa forgive me


A man of a thousand passions


A man of a thousand passions

Nary a one fulfilled

Is a sad man indeed


Boys are detectives


Boys are detectives,

Snoopers, priers,

Students of the great unknown,

Explorers and seekers,

Forging forward to discover

The mysteries of women

And their glorious constellations,

Stargazing at the electric mother

And her magnificent marble curves,

Their mind seething upon the oracle of woman

Boys are curious as cats,

The cult of Bubastis let out of the bag,

 Tripping into blackened mineshafts unexplored,

Picking up books and rifling through for pictures,

Testing mettle and might against another's

In chess and wrestling,

Sprawling out over the world

Through trees and dreams

Plotting geographies each step of the way


Boy are investigators,

Looking deep into the mirror for ghosts

That they are not sure exist,

But feel in their guts they do

Boys, what glorious inspectors!


Such is the existence of boys:

To be born,

To be curious,

To seek,

To find or not to find

And all the trouble that comes with it along the way


Never let this detective become a

Hardboiled man


The unsung


I sing of the unsung

Though they need not my song

To shore them up in silent labors

And for this very reason

I sing them an unsung song


We Rejoice in You


Face in the mirror,

imposter peering out


What is the point?

the point is this:

Because you were fearfully and wonderfully made

and there is but one of you,

just one, can you even fathom this?

There is only one of you,

only one to do what you must do

Look around you, is there another one of you?


Only yourself looking out at all the others

looking out at you

And this in and of itself is the point –

No one can be as you,

no one can stoop and do as you do,

no one can call forth fires and conjure up such as you,

don’t you see, it is only you!

No one can create, sing, write, draw,

dance, play, love, laugh, teach, work, as you!

You are a specific variety son and daughter,

just as the stars too far above you

and the sand beneath your toes,

as cosmic and infinite and unique

as they that are and have been and will be,

you are you!

So now,

go forth and do

as only you can do,

call forth fires and tomes unimaginable,

unimaginable but by you,

we are waiting for you,

and we rejoice in you!


Yin and Yang



Taught me to write write write

Don’t think too much but love it

Whitman taught me to love swarthy love

Regardless my prudence

The Bible taught me blood and guts

Re-building the wall

With a stone in one hand, sword in the other,

a case for the cosmic novel

Poet troubadour Kevin Morgan

Taught me to labor and construct

To edit and re-align

To the point it takes a year for a verse

Between these two I now reside

Writing in fervor

Editing in secret

Drinking to my brothers in yin and yang


Fondness for the faulty


Who is the creator,

But one with a fondness for the faulty?,

A fondness for the fallen?

To bring back ones lost

And to redeem them

Or bury them in peace,

This is the calling of the creator

Then we are all one,

Lost and fallen,

Forgiving and forgiven,

Together stitching the ending

Of the glorious cosmic novel