"New Works- Room 3"

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I Write Therefore I Am Time and Again
Lost Soul Streams of Consciousness Something More
Perceptions Jealousy A Time for Healing
Battleground So What? We Poets
Soul's Retreat He's In There Watching You Sleep

I Write
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I write these words, because I can,
Just simple words from a common man.
My sword unsheathed, a pen in hand.
Words sometimes I don't understand.

They ebb and flow, from me to you,
But what else could they hope to do?
They're only words, and sometimes few,
A slightly twisted point of view.

And if they touch you deep inside,
Where dreams and memories sometimes hide,
Could it be they might reside,
In thoughts your heart could not confide?

The words don't come as easily,
As sometimes they appear to be,
Not sure they even come from me,
But here they are for you to see.

I write the words I cannot speak,
To paint the dreams I often seek,
My voice it seems is much too weak,
And whispered thoughts are much too meek.

It's not the words that matter most,
A thin facade, like shadow ghosts,
They hold no pride, they speak no boast,
Although at times they seem engrossed.

A poem is just a simple way,
To say the things I need to say,
A thought that will not go away,
And begs the soul to come and play.

By: Alan W. Goodson
© 01-Jan-1998

Therefore I Am
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I think,
Therefore I am,
Or so I think,
But what more is there,
Beyond the thoughts...the dreams...
The small winds of life that blow coldly
Against the walls of the citadel of my soul?

Onward...into the darkness,
Where life, and love, and patterns of remembrance
Chip silently but surely away at the past,
Leaving stray bits of wonderment and awe,
Which quiver and shake against the reality I live.

A product of my past, packaged neatly for the future,
Held fast within a body aged to imperfection
And blinded to the course which has been set before me,
Whose footsteps I follow to what end or what end I follow
Within my own...who could know...and what purpose would lie
Within the knowing?

I think,
Therefore I know,
So little about so much,
While still wondering about so much more.

By: Alan W. Goodson
© 01/04/98

Time and Again
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Time and again, I've heard those words
In thoughts and silence, yet conferred
From lips that never dared to speak,
For fear of loss or a voice too weak.

But silent words incite a war,
Like quiet missles from afar,
And fangs are bared despite the cost,
Against the flesh of innocence lost.

For years I've swam against that tide
Of thoughts that others try to hide,
Yet still they flowed through loud and clear
To crash against my inner ear.

Time and again, I've let it go,
Ignored the wounds, but blood still flowed,
And now the scars have grown too deep,
No longer silence will I keep.

My life is mine and mine alone,
Though not a lot, it's all I own,
And I shall walk the path I choose,
In spite of different points of view.

A place I've made to make my stand,
A line is drawn, by my own hand,
So throw across your vicious words,
And watch me as I draw my sword.

Time and again, I'll hold this ground,
And guard the lives of love I've found,
I'll fight till blood runs smooth and clear
But I'll not shed another tear.

So judge me if you think you can,
But be prepared to show your hand,
I'll call it then I'll raise the bet,
Win or lose without regret.

It's not a simple game we play,
When things are said we shouldn't say,
Some thoughts are better left unheard,
Some stones are better left unturned.

By: Alan W. Goodson
© 06/09/98

Lost Soul
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Does the wind blow, cold and lonely,
Do the wolves howl at your fear,
Are there voices in the shadows,
Do they whisper in your ear?

There's a dark star in the heavens,
There's a black cloud in the sky,
And it hovers right above you,
As the years pass quickly by.

It's a hard road you have traveled,
It's a long time since you cared,
Burned the bridges as you crossed them,
But the smoke hangs in the air.

Now the darkness is your nightgown,
And the mirror tells the tale,
You must have missed the stairs to heaven,
As you ran the roads to hell.

By: Alan W. Goodson
© 8/13/98

Streams of Consciousness
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Not so long ago…lying awake, in the quiet darkness…remembering
How it used to be…who we used to be…and wandering
Across the blazing fields of half-remembrance
Squinting through the smoke of bridges burned.
And searching…for something…someone…myself perhaps,
To show me the way back to where I never was but only believed myself to be.

You were there, as I recall, long-legged, flowing brown hair…
Eyes the color of fertile earth, wet with sparkles of youth.
So lovely, so pure…so…cherished.
And so alone in your thoughts…where I could not enter,
Could not understand…could not be for you what you were to me,
Having not the intuition…or the ability to foresee what someday I would long for.

You left…taking pieces of me with you…pieces I never knew I possessed,
Until they were gone. Leaving behind fragile shells amongst which I walked,
Stumbled, faltered, and fell…bleeding profusely from unseen wounds,
While the darkness slithered quietly into my world,
Casting deep shadows into vacant dreams of dying youth.
Never knowing why…or how…or even when…the darkness took over the light.
Even on the brightest days…a thin film of pain lay over the sun.

Then I left too…nothing more here to see…move along son…the damage is done.
And in our separate wakes, as the years flowed by, ripples converged…then parted…
Random patterns of life’s constant flowing stream, ever widening but never fading,
Lapping at the edges of our thoughts…of each other…of what could have been…
Might have been…could never be. All twirled and twisted into one deep wave of goodbye.
Nevermore quothe the raven…or so he thought…he too, lacking that knowledge of forever.

What went around came around…in its own time…time, that faithful healer of all wounds…
Except those that cut the deepest, leaving unhealed scars and nerves
Exposed to the abrasions of life…cuts that never seemed to heal…would not heal,
Until kissed by angels of fate and justice hovering quietly above us,
But hesitating to place their lips against the open sores of dying dreams
Until someone…or something…cleaned up the mess.

You’ll be home soon…here…beside me…where you’ve really always been,
Or some small part of you has…taking up the space left behind by the part of me you took,
So many years ago…so very many years ago…in another life…another place…another world.
And we’ll lie together again…speaking softly or perhaps in silence,
Drifting with the tides of our thoughts,
Tides which ebb and flow…here and there…like they always have…like they did then,
When it all ended…when it all began.

By: Alan W. Goodson
© 11/25/98

Something More
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It's not the dreams that die so fast,
Those shadows from a distant past,
It's not the dreams but something more,
That cries behind a closing door.

When thoughts are filtered through the maze
Of life's realities,
And words are bound by fear of pain
Like locks without a key,

When all is lost and nothing seems
To matter anymore,
It's not the dreams but something more
That cries behind a closing door.

The road becomes a winding path,
Between the walls you slowly build,
Too high to climb, too hard to break,
A lonely fate is quietly sealed.

And all that grows is weeds and thorns
Where flowers once your life adorned.
It's not the dreams but something more
That cries behind a closing door.

So there you stand with empty hands,
And questions in your eyes.
Afraid to ask, afraid to know,
But now you finally realize,

It really wasn't meant to be,
And now you can't ignore,
It's not the dreams but something more
That dies behind a closing door.

By: Alan W. Goodson

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Looking back...looking forward,
Sometimes it's all the same,
Differences lie in perceptions.

Destiny does not travel in a straight path.
It twists, turns, circles back...
Meanders and winds through our lives,
Taking us here and there,
Intersecting with others on their own path...
For a moment, for a time, for a lifetime.

Having its way with our thoughts,
With our dreams and with our lives.
And what does it leave behind?
What do WE leave behind...with those we meet,
Those we touch...those we love,
Even if only for that brief moment?

It is the essence of who we are,
What we feel,
And sometimes...it is pain,
The pain of saying goodbye,
The pain of love that dies,
The pain of dreams never meant to come true.

The purpose...our purpose, often unclear,
Disguised by the haze of plans laid to waste
By the random events of our lives.
Or are they really random?

Does every step we take truly lead us somewhere,
Or do we sometimes stray from the path
We were meant to take?
To explore, to experience, if only for a while,
The thrill of being lost,
Only to return to where we were meant to be,
Where ever that may be.

Questions with no clear answers,
Unanswerable questions,
All a part of life,
With its joy,
With its pain,
With its tears and laughter.

Living, Loving, Laughing, Crying...Dying...
Sometimes it's all the same,
Differences lie in perceptions.

By: Alan W. Goodson

(with "inspirational credit" to Teresa King)
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Jealousy...yes, I have felt it,
Its fetid breath...fumes exhaled
from a quiet anger over things not
held in my grasping hands,
Sharp claws extended towards my eyes
...eyes which behold a view
of things desired...that I can never own.

For I want...

...the world,
With all its wonders,
Its joy, its pain, its treasures and trash.
Amongst all this, and more...I want to walk,
To shop...picking and choosing what I shall keep
for myself.

...to own the glow of the sun,
To spread its glory as a halo around my
sometimes dreary world.

...to be an actor,
A giant on the screen of life,
Hovering over the lesser ones,
Casting the force of my being,
Into the hearts of my followers.

...to be a writer,
Words dripping from my pen like warm honey,
coating the throat of the beast,
soothing the pain of the lost and disheartened.

...to be a saviour,
Caressing the souls of the damned,
leading them to the light of eternity.

...to be a poet,
Wrapping the scheme of life
in rhythm and rhyme,
A cadence of emotions
held fast by the bond of metered thoughts.

Jealousy...oh yes, I have felt it.
A war of unsettling desire
Between that which I have,
And that which can never be.

By: Alan W. Goodson
© July 1999

A Time For Healing

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I held you in my arms last night,
Wings wrapped tightly around you,
As The Light caressed our souls.
Sleep did not come,
Nor will it ever come again.
Sleep is for those who do not know truth.

Your warm tears washed over me,
Seeping deeply into my heart,
Lost within the waters of my own,
While I held tighter,
Clinging to your constant love,
Awake and conscious of it all.

Did you think your bleeding wounds,
Would scare me away,
Or the intensity of your grasp,
Would part the waters,
Driving them in different directions,
Eternally flowing from you?

I am not afraid to place my lips,
Lovingly upon savage wounds,
Laying open, exposed to me.
Lapping forever softly,
Healing those places that, for eternity,
Have uneasily wrestled within you.

Nor, am I afraid of your desires,
That call out hungrily,
Yet instinctively hide from a cold world.
I have stood within your eyes,
Have felt the depth buried there,
And only craved more.

I have sensed your fears of exposure,
So many have taken from your core,
Leaving nothing in the wake,
Yet, I flow through you continually,
Bathing the inner places,
Where no one else has entered.


And there I will remain,
As I have always been,
As I will always be.
Replacing the lost fragments
Of a soul who has given too much
And received oh so little.

For all your dreams are wishes from the soul,
And commands spoken only to my own.
Unbidden and unformed promises heralded
By the coming of night, of darkness, of despair
Will no longer cast their shadows
Upon your life.

I am for you...of you...because of you,
A twin star of a different world,
Casting ethereal light into your heart,
Illuminating the sacred darkness you hide from the world.
Where your spirit lies quietly
Awaiting its release from earthly realms.

What we have become
May be chained to broken dreams of the past,
But what we will become,
Is bound only by the limits of life itself.
Bonds that will someday be loosened,
Allowing the flow of eternity to carry us onward.

And until that day comes,
Until those mortal ties that bind our hearts
Are severed by the crystal swords of fate,
I will be with you...in dreams...
Or wherever your thoughts may wander
For that is my calling in this life and beyond.

So sleep, my precious love,
And dream your dreams,
Which have become my dreams as well.
Merging softly in the darkness,
But held fast within The Light,
As our souls become as one.


By: Alan W. Goodson and Michelle Bartley
© July 1999


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The heart lies twisted in remorse
While demons struggle for control,
With love left bleeding in the dust
Of battles waged between two souls.

The darkness hides the bitter tears,
In tight formation, marching on,
Like salty blood that flows from pain
Of jagged wounds that scrape the bone.

Who's right, who's wrong, who cares at all
When dreams have fallen one by one?
Those silent soldiers of the night,
Lie deathly pale by morning sun.

The weapons fire in quick response,
As bullets streak through hurtful words.
And wars are waged where love once grew,
When wounded pride draws out the sword.

Your life becomes a battleground,
When roses show their sharpest thorns.
The flag of peace is ripped to shreds,
As bugles blow for love they mourn.

And when the smoke of pain has cleared,
The soul lies scorched in sullen shame.
The battle cries reduced to tears,
With no one left to take the blame.

By: Alan W. Goodson
© July 18, 1999

So What?

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So what? She never said,
not with words,
but...oh, the roll of the eyes,
a downturned twitch of the smile,
spoke volumes... loud against my silent yearning
to know her thoughts.

Who cares? She never said,
not with words,
to know her thoughts
was more than she could give,
empty inside her shell...
with little to give,
with nothing to share.

Whatever! She never said,
not with words,
with nothing to share,
greed being her best side,
hidden in the shadows of her finessed beauty
and disconnected from caring.

Fuck you! She never said,
not with words,
and disconnected from caring,
there was little to hold,
less to desire,
no reason to try
to know her thoughts.

By: Alan W. Goodson © 1999

We Poets

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We poets speak in rhythm
and rhymes (at times),




with joy and hope
or anger and pain,

quietly or loudly,

To who
(or whom?-- grammar not always being our strong suit)

ourselves? the world? no one?

and from where?

our souls? our hearts? our frustration?

passing our messages obliquely
between the lines
to insure an accurate misinterpretation.

Fragmented sentences
with fill in the blank emotions
where one size fits all
or no one.

Bottled messages of lyrical dressing
tossed into an ocean salad
of time and space
in hopes of reaching friendly shores (souls?)
that hunger for our inspired revelries.

We poets,

but proud to explain
and artificially disseminate
our seeds to others like us

...incestous contamination of
the artistic gene pool

where we splash
and frolic
and drown


©Alan W. Goodson

Soul's Retreat
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Dark spiders crawl on glowing webs
Through quill-spun strands of fate,
While poets draw their ink dipped swords
And battle at the gate
that leads to all that never was
and all that's meant to be.
A time warped hole that lies between
a choice and destiny.

I searched for meaning never found
And swam through past regrets
Against a tide of empty hearts
That lust and youth begets.
Alone and lost amongst the waves
I glimpsed a distant shore
Where angels danced and played their harps
With keys to heaven's door.

I felt the grip of time's embrace
And reached the sunlit sands,
Then wept in pain when every grain
Slipped quickly through my hands.
I watched them fall with solemn grace
while shedding gritty tears,
and saw them drift in silent piles,
the dust of passing years.

I prayed for peace and love divine
Along a winding path,
Absolved by Mother Nature's heart
But murdered by her wrath,
then born again I touched a star
a beacon in the night,
a lantern held by God's own hand
but never saw the Light.

I soared through distant realms of dreams
Encountered in the past,
While questions fell like feathered lace
Unanswered or unasked.
Below me lay the dark abyss
Above me hung the cord,
A golden rope to lift me up
And spread my final words.

I found a place of solitude,
To build my world anew,
A place to rest and heal the pain
Of dreams that don't come true.
A soul's retreat within my mind
That somehow came to be
A beacon of another kind
That led you here to me.

"For Sharon"

©Alan W. Goodson

He's In There
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He's in there...


Racing madly through eternal green fields
chasing butterflies
and wondering what clouds are made of,

or where the white goes when the snow melts.

Not that it matters as long as there are clouds to watch
and snow to melt
and questions to ask...

He collects things too.
small things mostly

strange rocks
snake skins


tucking them all away for later,
when the darkness comes
and there is no one around to see him.

When he can look at the rock and wonder
about the million-year secrets held within

When he can feel the dry, silk-scaly smoothness
of the snake skin against his cheek

When he can take the feelings, dip them in ink
and spread them across the diary of his life...

...when he can cry...

when he can feel the bittersweet release
of a thousand tears
each one containing a small sharp-sparkling memory
of all the years,
all the pain and joy and wonder,
all the smiles and dreams

of long summer days
of worlds he visited...or created...or left behind,

for all he lost and all he gained,

becoming the man

he is now.

By: Alan W. Goodson

Watching You Sleep
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Watching you sleep,
in your shadows and curves,
dreamswept realms flickering
beneath trembling lids,

I wonder what paths you travel
between the images
of yesterday's dark fear and tomorrow's bright promise.
while ghosts and angels
dance with your heart.
I stroke your shoulder, silk smooth layers of
flesh against my
wandering hand.
Your earthly cage vainly attempting
to hold its precious cargo
as your soul slips
through the bars
seeking solace in dreams
that only time can bring in life.
I so want to walk with you
through those dusty remnants
of past regrets
to sweep clear the way
in your dreams
so that when you wake
and reach for me

the path we traveled as one
will show no footprints
but our own.

by: Alan W. Goodson

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