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