cottage

constance bay on a weekend
let's all hit pop flies
sleep with sandy feet

(an original by Gravenrecords)

before dawn

woke up and stared out the window,

passing cars, street lights in the rain,

woke up and stared into the mirror,

passing years, more lines for the forehead again,

woke up and stared down the long hall,

distant footsteps and rattling door chains,

woke up and stared into the past,

instant solutions can't escape the pain,

woke up and stared into the future,

a soldier's fear, no mission to keep him sane,

woke up and stared into my soul,

pure light, so I put on my shades,

woke up and stared into the darkness,

angel at my bedside, she held the ace of spades.

Who am I? Bert Sugar?

writing anything, writing nothing,
stories, blogs, essays, poems, lyrics,
articles, summaries, even bureaucratic reports,
why, that counts as "writing."
It doesn't have to be grand or beautiful,
doesn't have to be "properly" constructed,
hell, it might be borne from what's been torn down and rebuilt,
or shaved right off the top... shot right from the hip
free-association musings on traumatic memories
or pointless commentary,
maybe just well wishes on a birthday card,
or,
something like the hard geniuses,
Joyce or Fitzgerald,
written to put food on the table,
written out of personal pain,
because you hate the world,
and the fools that fill it's streets...

but a blogger,
is like a boxer,
punching hard into the next round,
desperate for the bell,
just trying to deliver the post,
I write the best I can,
I mean, who am I?
Bert Sugar?

a cramp in the wind

I get a foreboding sense,
in underground parking lots,
at late night cash machines,
over 2am phone calls,
I get a foreboding sense,
when the clouds go black,
in empty buildings,
or walking quiet streets,
a deep rooted sense,
borne of previous trauma,
a honed instinct,
or,
simple superstition.
I find the will,
in the admiration of those,
who have survived dark storms,
walked those lost corridors,
yet stood alone,
still checked by a healthy conscience,
they have been sent to hell,
but have returned,
their fear gave birth to self-awareness,
the paradox of strength,
those,
the seasoned riders of hell's dark night,
who, now,
sleep soundly through howling winds.