open vintage book of plenty flower

Nocturnal Songsters

Nocturnal Songsters

There is a mockingbird just out my door
who sings at midnight—
not a moment before.

This feathered being’s high pitched refrain
sings lullabies to me as I lie awake in pain.

He sings to me as if to say,
“Why sleep now when you can sing anyway?

Who needs nightmares that do scare
when one has lofty day dreams for which to care?”

He keeps on singing through the night
as the clock spins from left to right—
right past one, two, three, and four—
maybe even a few hours more!

Sometimes the night owl is also the early bird,
happily awake until hours absurd.

Chasing after tunes instead of worms,
he sings his happy, two-note song,
practicing for the daily sing along.
He sings his way until the morning,
waiting for all his friends to join in.

Accompanying the sunrise every morn
is a giant chorus of melody,
as one by one their voices take flight,
joining the bird who solos all through the night,
giving score to the painting of the light.


Poetic Timing

This poem from Poet Loiterer is one of my favorites to read at open mics.

Poetic Timing

Poetry never comes at a convenient time.
It shows up in the shower as a silly rhyme.
It reveals itself to me when I’m hiking around.
It comes to me at services when I’m making prayerful sounds.
It weaves its way into my psyche when I’m driving in the country.
It interrupts conversations and it demands to be heard,
but when I sit with pen and paper, it never says a word!

Yellow Eyed Penguin

The Valley of the Moon

The Valley of the Moon

Somewhere deep inside the valley of the moon
where the mountains kiss the stars goodnight
lies the road to peace.

This road spirals around the earth,
once paved in kindness by loving hands,
a network of possibilities guiding the feet of dreamers,
who step gently across majestic lands.

Towering art and free flowing flowers dot
the winding way to sunsoaked sands and forgotten forests
where trees stretch high and leaves wave free at rainbowed skies.

Music wafts throughout the air, echoing for miles around,
in every genre and every joyful sound,
flowing from free souls who wander there
deep inside the valley of the moon.

Passersby flash peace signs at motorists,
who pause in chapels searching for wholeness
behind doors adorned by holy greetings of welcome,
saying, “We must love the world to peace.”

And as friends walk hand in hand
down the road from distant lands,
their broken-hearted days are at an end
as love is magic imbued with hope.

To find this road one must but look within
towards safety of the beating heart
for it knows that slow and steady goes
the whisperings of a new start.

Deep inside a midnight gaze
between lovers’ eyes on mundane days
hides the map that shows the way.

The warm embrace of a friendly face
will transport you right away
for you can never arrive too soon
deep inside the valley of the moon.


The Church of Holy Crude

Governor Mary Fallin of Oklahoma has declared Oct 13th Oil Field Prayer Day. Seriously.

The Church of Holy Crude

The governor of my former home state
has asked us all to pray.

The governor of my former home state
practices a different faith.

The governor of my former home state
has anointed us with oil.

The governor of my former home state
has erected a monument to her god.

On the capitol lawn it watches over us
like a guardian angel
crafted of metal,
as schools lack funding and tornado shelters,
while placing first for fracking earthquakes,
crumbling our family homes,
we know nothing is more sacred.

We listen to her holy prophets,
who worship in the name of profits.

Oh, have we faith in the souls
of the dead dinosaurs
that have come before us,
as we pray our way
towards an equal fate
as lead by the governor
of my former state.


day of peace

Peace will Come – International Day of Peace

In honor of the International Day of Peace, making a special post for this.
I wrote these words as part of my contribution to La Familia:

Peace will come the day we forget how to drop the bombs or make the guns,
When we get along underneath the same old sun,
Singing songs in holy unison no matter where we’re from,
Yes, peace will come. Peace will come. Pray before the day is done.

My friend, Fred Ross-Perry was inspired by them and expanded it into these lyrics, and the song:

Peace will come, and it won’t be long
When we forget how to drop the bombs
When we forget how to make the guns
That’s when peace will come

Peace will come when we get along
When we get along underneath the sun
All together under that same old sun
That’s when peace will come

Peace will come when we’re singing songs
Singing in holy unison
Singing no matter where we’re from
That’s when peace will come

Yes, Peace will come, and it won’t be long
We’ll help each other to be strong
And we’ll work until the day is done,
That’s when peace will come.

Oh My Chameleon Perceptions

Oh, my Chameleon Perceptions

Grey, with fellow Enid musicians Steven Harwood and Mike Harbour, turned four of my poems (Perceptions, Chameleon, Unexnon, My My) from my first book Tea & Sprockets into this song which will appear on Grey’s forthcoming album, Booze & Psychedelics due out in the fall. Click here to listen if the embed doesn’t appear.

Below are the four poems that make up the lyrics to the song.


Lying in the leaves,
Music flowing through her bones,
Thoughts, ideas swell inside,
Visual creation.
It needs no explanation.
Springtime day at noon,
Life begins to bloom,
Kicking stones straight down,
Laughing now.
She’s such a clown.
World is ending.
She cares not.
Life blooms on.
That’s her sole thought.
Drumming on,
Marching on,
They shoot.
She feels not.
They’ve died.
She knows not.
They’re in pain.
Alone. Forgot.


In a new world
devoid of devotion
to tradition and song
lost in illusion
forgetting the wrongs
of a generation’s past.

Into the night
we step into darkness
seeking the light
of the sun and the moon
forgiving the world
for it’s only doomed.

Sadly awaking
I look to my left
seeing the dragons
breathing fire at dawn
clutching my chest
beginnings are gone.

Strong evolution
revolutions gone past
escaping the prison
of timing and space
into the reasons
we all leave this place.

Nonsensical murmurs
of the front porch light
piercing mosquitoes
illuminating misdeeds
from men who seek evil
but play good in the light.

My My

My my.
What do I actually care?
Because I don’t!
Not in this vast darkness
in the infinite corridors
of my mind.

I cannot care.
For when I cease
to care, my
my head is free!
Yes, freedom
slowly cut out
surgically removed
the national

Subconscious are my,
my thoughts.
Silent protest on
the lawn

The dull ache.
The notion.

Alas, refrain!
There is no right
to silence.

Silence your pain.
Nervous breaking.


I am uncertain.
Day to day.
Are you true?
Why do I ponder?
No importance.
I trust your words.
Your actions confuse me.
Sanity is but a dream.
Nonexistent. Labeled.
Tell me who I am.
Who are you?
I cannot say what I want for I do not know.
I walk among earthquakes,
pondering the purpose, but not seeing one.
Joy is fleeting.
Why do you use me so?
No, I like it. Overwhelmed. No time.
Have I misjudged everyone?
Or is the world more skeptical than I?
I am a fool.
Damn my inhibitions.
They lead me into a cage.
Trapped for no reasons.
Destined for a lonely world.
Thousands walking.
Paths collide. We are blind.
I fear what you’d think.
Do you know?
I retract my harsh words.
You were right.

open book of family story

Dining with your Skeleton, an Enid, Oklahoma poem

If you grew up in Enid, Oklahoma as I did, and have studied the town’s history, mythology, and artists, you’ll understand the cultural references in this poem that appears in Abundant Sparks & Personal Archeology. This poem also appears on the spoken word album Happy Accidents recorded in Enid in March 2015. (This is a repost, as I noticed there was a broken link on the old post.)

Dining with your Skeleton

From the sweet simplicity of wooden sidewalks of yore
Words intricately woven by that judicious James
Your sweet wheat blows
Through the fields where dreamers lay.
The gentle serenade of Hedges
Waltzes with the soulful Mitchell,
carrying me beyond those rough days
Spent struggling for survival.
How I admire your modern day bards,
As they fly on pegasys wings,
Igniting my soul. I study your myths,
From George to Holden to Roye.
You build the statues of my heart,
Painting the dreams unending,
That carry me onward, a rooted rose rock.
I’ve walked your hallowed halls in exile,
With infamous grey evangelicals,
Amid the Roman columns of values,
Silhouetted in skies once inspiring
The likes of Cessna and Woodring, that Musketeer.
Placed my feet solid in red dirt
That may hold not the mummy of that rascal George,
But the Union Patriot turned messiah gopher, Corbett.
They like me never saw your Victory ships,
Nor your Carnegie. Though these days
My eyes oft admire mountains and palm trees,
The faint train whistle carries my heart,
Whispering “Remember your history.”