Thirds to Nothing

Indifferent to the pain
Well knowing I should feel 
Something    I fill the bottom
Legs on formica
The shower flows
No   It looks down quietly
And I feel    Nothing

Everything comes with thought
Through tongue it's bought
Like hand-me-downs
On the front lawn
Pickers fill their bags
My old trash a new jewel
For the less fortunate
Liquid salt penetrates 
Rubs   Bumps  The wounds
And I heal    Nothing

No salt left to spill 
From tiny ducts
Just lavender bubbles
No smell tricks the mind
Like that purple veil
Or a magnolia    A warm day 
In the state of the Blues
And I care about   Nothing

We're all gone   Doors slammed
Locked and abandoned
Breast bare I soak 
In this porcelain boat
No clue how to trim the fat
Off a beaten horse
Where do I stick the facts
Who do I give report
With no lead   From before
Soldered keys in hand
And I turn for    Nothing

We fill my eyes with regret
Pressure   A rush of blood
A slap of remorse
Loss    My grievance
For the pair that lie
Wrapped in a black box
Hanging to fill a plot
To land an eternal rest
And I cry for    Nothing

Caught by the moment
We first swapped eyes   
Lights flipping  Floating 
Flickering the sky   That night
Freedom fled with our gaze
We didn't meet   Still    For days
But it was over    Before 
The seven years we shouldered
We kept licking teeth and gums
Though the time had come
Gone    We played out this song
And I feel    Nothing

~Zedley Webber
2014

Words' Letters

I relish the words of friend and foe;
tuck them for my own mastery.
Letters can never know their worth
how their groupings hurt, help, kill or sustain
But, once met, they stain.
Even words said through mirth,
giggle to embed a memory,
then lock in to repose;
But those lent in foul birth,
Offensive to no remedy,
Settle in to corrode.
Letters do better to refrain,
From words not meant for positive gain.
Scars they may unearth,
while demons dance on delivery
of what injury will impose.

No Parking at the Gym

Hours behind a stopped wheel, thinking, passing on time
Reeling over slanderous posts that hold up the mind
Watching bodies float from metal heaps to clang bars
Light reflections bounce from blinding hoods
Windows glaze; night comes earlier than it should
The desire to move makes a painful start

Anxious as the firs turn dark
Like shadows of Bigfoot on his mark
Officer's circle in crowned white toys
People stare and smoke and call
Exercise their right to stall as
Jacked up rides bounce out their noise

More boys pass with a grin and a nod
They are checked by a pin, say "Thanks again!"
Some beg for a spot and I wonder
how often they step back in.

Temporary

Places to rest, and hang material, switch and kick as life clunks along with its gravelled load.

Bulbs from nature to the florescent and efficient lose the luster that is dying from birth.

Jobs can call at anytime, give praise, twist fate, make a man lose his plate.

People live their ticking clocks, climb some rocks, make their way to an impending stop.


Words can never turn back time and often haste brings nasty rhymes.

Hate can never truly pay; save that line for judgement day.

We're all temporary here, grab some love, don't cloud the ears.

Seen and Said

I've loved and lived and laughed and cried,
Paid the piper's fee with pride,
Laid to rest unfortunate kings,
Felt the mockingbird's ranting stings.

I've sung and strung and flung and lost,
Watched my dreams pay the cost,
Been judged by many, loved by few,
Used the aggressive sided "you."

I've struggled and muddled and cuddled and left,
Salted a shoulder to get some rest,
Seen Envy at her squabbling nape,
Counted on lucky for my escape.

I've spent and lent and bent and stood,
Tall as the bark of a Northwest Pine could,
Heard what was said from the backs of clowns,
Packed up and left so I could be found.


Tell me my life is less than it is.
Tell me my heart can't overwhelm bliss.
The mountain I climb is a towering brick,
In the wall of destiny's unguided trick.

Kissing A Dam

The false readings  of sun drenched skin
Not happy, but kissed again
Chapped lips and mental  spares
Of what really brings him there.
Dark in, light out, only two move
Under A plush, print-less cover to
The mattress floor.  Rocks,
Speckle and scatter, build a natural pour
No locked door could cease the flow
Of the smoky dew lit den.
The pictures by him, shopped and hung as
The camera rolls. Lips purse to capture the
Smell and graze the snap his walls expose.