Slippery Roads

To know

without resorting 

to proving

To inspire

without resorting

to competing

To profane

without resorting

to profanity

To win

without resorting

to defeating

To hope

without resorting

to pleading

To own

without resorting

to possessing

To love

without resorting

to being loved

for myself for you

I embarrass myself

every time I try

yet still I try

hoping I’ll get over it

but I never do

till you

smile and say

you like it

then upon a high horse

I’ll ride awhile

validated somehow

by a mere smile

I never really see

but believe I do

so again I’ll try

for myself for you

poem & artwork by Dave Holloway

Billiards

I love playing the game of pool.
It baffles the wisest, and confounds the fool.

Though I know the game like the back of my hand,
how I miss a easy shot, I can’t understand.
I’ll run seven balls, sure as hell,
then miss on the eight for reasons I can’t tell.
Some say it’s deliberate, others say it’s a joke,
some curse their way, others light up a smoke.
I just wait for another turn to try.
I’ve learned in my years and this is no lie,
ninety percent of those who play this game
beat themselves for the reasons they blame
their misses on.  Either self, table or cue,
and knowing this gives me a edge over a few.

No one really knows and I’ve played the best,
but the thing is,  it’s always a test
 against one’s inner will.
One’s turbulent soul and ability to still
the forces that disturb, coming from outside.
The cute little waitress or the player who lied
and said, ‘he never really plays the game,’
then somewhere in the night takes all but the shame.

The game’s like water, it rises to its own level.
It’s as unpredictable as a judge and his gavel.
It can make you feel like a god, or a king on a throne.
It can take your faith leaving you empty and alone.

All and all I just have to say
the thing about this game and reason I play,
it reveals the possibility of an impeccable way.

by Dave Holloway   1997

Junkie Nation

Addictions seem justified
by the addict alone.
Be it thin white lines
or chatting on a cell phone.

Accepted or unaccepted,
the call is the same.
Synapses firing
back in the brain

making little distinction
between needle and game.
A compulsion triggers
and that’s always the same

in all addictions
and their jones alike.
Promoters are the pushers
pushing in a new Reich

to stand a millennium
in a different guise.
At the heart of it’s power
an addiction lies.

Snow

In the ease
of the perfect life
lacking all fear,
pain and strife

the artist retires
but knows it not.

Dime store words
fill every thought

as blankets unfold
a heavenly white
falling non stop
through the night.

 

 

 

photo & poem by Dave Holloway

                                                    Homeless

I live in my car and watch people
from my parking lot
perspective,
they come from warm houses,
food prepared by loving spouses,
children to schools where they're taught
how to live above this parking lot
perspective,
yet, it's not so bad
though I have no warm house,
no loving spouse,
the children are all grown, I live alone
in my car which is by far better than a bush,
alley or construction site
where many shiver through out the night
like Susan,
who sleeps in the rocks at the beach,
totally unaware of all she could teach
this indifferent world and all it takes for granted
with its crumbling foundation, a structure now slanted,
furnished with morals all sliding to a corner,
whoever holds tight ends up a loner,
living in cars, alleys and rocks at the beach
and poor, poor Cheri
shares her hopes to reach
Virginia by mid-month to live with her kids,
food stamp money for a bus ticket
is the last hope that lives of her shattered dreams,
hands clinched at her sides
she screams and screams,
and a drunken cowboy Mike
talks of a daughter in Texas somewhere,
a blue Mustang he'll buy her
when he flies down there
but for now another bottle
he's reluctant to share
with Susan who lives on the beach,
unaware of the survival lessons she could teach
like how to eat edibles from a trash can,
or how to avoid cops while sleeping in the sand
which is illegal like sleeping in my car
even though I own it and pay for the tar
and asphalt with the taxes I pay
but at least I have somewhere to stay
when the cold wind blows through the night
unlike poor Cheri, Susan and cowboy Mike,,,

by Dave Holloway 1997

Winter

Winter pushes in
like a playground bully
shaking trees
of their golden attire
with reds afire
fighting to hang on.

Burrows dug deep
under wings filling
like smoke the skies
to escape the brute’s
full reign.

poem by Dave Holloway

Like Children

We’ve had it so easy
yet think it’s been rough.
We avoid every conflict
yet we act so tough

and boast we won
when we never even played.
Think we’ve journeyed
when we’ve always stayed

close to the apron
feigning proud and brave.
Believing we believe
in life after the grave

and powers immense
that can’t ever be known.
Then we insist we love
with our hearts of stone.


by Dave Holloway

Share

I write, I draw, I exist.
I want to share
but few want what I share.

Family wants me on the curb
or behind bars.
My enemy wants me dead.

It’s hard to tell the difference
yet still, I write, I draw, I exist
and simply want to share.

Trust

In a trusting world
all proof dissolves
into a fragrance
upon a warm breeze
and we’re all at ease.

Then the wolf comes
knocking and demanding
we pay for the unknown
delivered by neither him
nor me,

dissolving the trust
as a cold wind blows,

Honor

A hollow thump
is the only sound
when a dead horse
hit the ground

but more thumps
followed in suit.
All made in vain
by a steel toed boot

would best describe
the cringe within
when words like honor
are spoken in whim.

 35 to Life

Truth sits in a cell
next to Change,
a repeat offender,
two strikes down

yet never a frown,
waves goodbye again
to his dear friend
doing 35 to life

for committing crimes
against the crimes
of his youth.


Shadow of Giants

In shadows of giants
sand castles are built
for the rising tide
to wash them out

as the shadow consumes
every effort, every sigh
escaping childish lips
covered by hands

in quiet resignation.


Hindsight

When I was young
I could never grasp
the meaning
of my own youth.

Only now in hindsight
can I fully embrace it
too late.  

For All We Know

our presence remains
in the wooden box,
paralyzed still
in bloated corpse.

Feels the darkness
pressing in.
Smells decay
in hallowed ground.
Hears the shovel’s
final sound

entombing fate
marked in stone.
Eternal rewards,
stilled and alone.

by Dave Holloway