The Decline

Like a cockroach

that somehow endures

a nuclear blast

we too endure

the blast of rejection

and the fallout disease

of alienation

and every now and then

crawl out from a crack

to skitter this way and that

avoiding the slap

of a leather sole demise

or the capture

of inquisitive eyes

and we still survive

wishing to fly

away from ourselves.

Fly Paper

Like fly paper
I accumulate, not only flies
but particles of discontent,
strands of regret
and bits and pieces
of self-deception
sticking to the memories
of my good intent.

by Dave Holloway

Evergreen 

You have seen

with no eyes

the turn of tides

a century long

and you have felt

with no skin

the soft caress

of a gentle wind

and you’ve heard

with no ears

your brothers fall

beyond trail’s end

and you have smelt

without a nose

the smoky clouds

of your own demise.

In the Dark

Screeching cries,

talons sink deep

the yielding flesh,

raptors reap.

Carrying screams

upon the wind,

chorus like

the two blend.

In a eerie fate

for the dying kind,

orchestrated above

by swaying pine.

A conductor’s wand

through a dark night

filled with fear

and void of light.

The Smart Thing

The winds blow through 

the hair of blasphemy,

tossing it this way and that,

while his sister heresy

plays with her toes

and hides in the shade

of a old friend who say’s,

something terrible

the wind blows in

and I think it’s a thing

called intelligence,

in which I have none

flowing through my limbs

covered in green attire

and enduring 

centuries of everything 

but the smart thing.

by Dave

Painting by Dave

1996

Fifty 

This is the last day of my forties. 

Tomorrow I'm a half a century old. 

Seems monumental in a way, 

I would of denied it if told 

I'd make it this far. 

Hell, thirty was a surprise, 

forty was unreal, 

at fifty I should be wise, 

but I'm not,

only been through so many things. 

Nothing's ever paid off and that stings. 

Never got a job to ease my later years. 

Never found a woman to calm my fears 

of a growing inadequacy

in a world that demands 

servitude to a pace 

rapidly changing where it stands.

Tomorrow I'm fifty, today I say farewell 

to the years of my youth, I lived so well, 

so evil, so wicked and yet so pure. 

Overcoming without help most every fear. 

Now almost fifty, monumental like I said, 

I died a dozen times but I'm still not dead. 

Lived in nice houses, shacks and behind jail bars. 

Made my share of money, driven nice cars, 

fathered beautiful children 

still shooting for the stars. 

Fought in a war and dabbled in the arts. 

Stood at the pulpit, broke a few hearts. 

Seen some things nobody should see 

yet still I marvel 

when the sun touches the sea.

Soon to be fifty and still can't define 

the god I saw once only a inch from my mind. 

The meaning of it all, I'm sure of this 

but just out of reach like a lover you miss, 

so close you can feel her kiss 

but when you open your eyes 

she fades into the mist,

where dreams like past years 

cease to exist.

by Dave 

(I wrote this 13 years ago)

      

Rule of Thumb 

The lesson giver, 

exasperated,

insisted we heed

the narrow way trailing

what we already learned

the hard way,

the loser’s way,

the only way 

is

there’s six billion sides

to every way

and twelve billion eyeballs

rolling.

 * * * *

I suppose

there’s an exception

to every rule

because every rule

was once an exception.

“Hey!” the furry one said,

“we don’t have to kill them”

hence,

‘Thou shalt not kill’

with exceptions of course.

Homeless Dawn

The black gives way

to ever brightening

shades of gray.

Reflections of orange,

yellow ray

off the underbelly

of a lingering storm.

Five new mosquito bites

matching the hours

of uninterrupted sleep

as the commuter traffic

grows and growls

ever so loud

and a light wind remnant

of a car rocking blow,

five hours ago

gives pause and praise

to a homeless dawn.

Parking Lot Blues

He looks at all these people

coming and going.

All with a place to go

but he, always he

like a bird in a tree

flying from one parking lot

to another.

Cops on the prowl

and somehow

he simply blends in.

Just a old man

sitting in his car

waiting for someone 

perhaps

who never shows up

and the time creeps by.

Good he'll sigh,

for he's in no hurry to die

as he waits for the night’s

dark embrace…

Requiem for a Goat

There he stood on a distant hill.

Far from the herd, alone and still.

A champion breed, noble and sure.

Separated for his response to the ageless lure

that drives a beast crazy from time to time.

Now he awaits his master’s find

yet his eyes quickly scan the area below.

An urgency directs the way to go.

Muscles respond, he finds himself free.

Strength abounds, he knows what’s to be.

The does are nervous, they seek to hide.

A buck with the does rises in pride.

He knows a battle is soon to begin.

He also knows it could be his end.

The master’s wire fence separates the two.

A small obstacle for what they must do.

The sound of crashing heads fills the air.

An obsession to kill is what they share.

The noble one realizes he’s getting no where

so he backs up the hill for one last shot.

This time he’s giving it all he’s got.

Charging like a locomotive with head cast down

he misses the buck and hits a pole in the ground.

Silence fills the night time air.

The does just graze, they don’t care.

The victor walks away, the battle is done.

He knows not why, but knows he’s won.

The champion lies dead, alone and still

with a broken neck at the bottom of the hill.

Victim of a urgency that delights in the kill.

My friend Bill raised goats and while we shot pool he told me this true story about his prize winning goat.  I was moved and inspired by the ridiculous relevancy to my own haphazard way of racing headstrong into love.

1988