I was rolling in the darkness.

The winter turns to spring.

Not much more than plenty.

I guess I didn’t need a thing.

I see her growth in real time.

Sometimes, I witness all.

Take it in and keep in stride.

And just pray I don’t appall.

The light is on horizon.

I am almost out of bed.

There are reasons to be hopeful.

For less reasons than you said…

Taserface was sleeping in the bedroom on a quilt.

Free from all her suffering and all the pains of shame and guilt.

Her fur was soft and matted from the garden and the birds.

And the shit and dust and blood and mud and things that don’t have words.

Taserface is sleeping, and she twitches like a cat.

We feed and need her lust for greed, but that’s not where it’s at.

In the darkness, she will awaken, and once more, she will roam.

We are moving, and poor Taserface is searching elsewhere for a home.

We dined on tea and oranges.

On the sand down by the sea.

There were possible storm warnings.

That escaped both you and me.

The dingy left the harbor.

The sail snapped by noon.

The winds grew dark and heavy.

Under far too soon, typhoon.

They’ll be no more tea and oranges.

Or walks down at the park.

The dreamers dream is heavy now.

And faint hopes are growing dark.

I’d been searching for the answers… When finally she came along.

Preforming miracles, curing cancers. Giving music to the song.

She taught and gave directions. Even when I didn’t ask.

She let me know my fortune. In her sunshine I could bask.

She showed me all my foibles. And how little I evolved.

I felt criminally unworthy, so I left her. Mystery solved.

There is a heart shaped carve in rosewood.
There’s a line drawn in the sand.
I pray there on grace and wonder,
and there’s a baby, she’s in my hand.

There’s a virtue called forgiveness.
From a force we can’t see.
It’s how I deal with darkness.
Of how I feel when you’re with me.

I struggle now to hear you.
Seek approval in your eyes.
I hate you for your beauty.
Like I love you for your lies.

It’s a sad sad situation
Department sad but true.
You fear that they are coming
And you fear what they will do.

It’s a sad sad situation
Under heading sad but true
You fear that they are coming
No one is coming for you.

Dennis Mantin

I don’t know why my baby loves clowns.
Whose painted on tears never fall down.
I don’t know what she sees in their eyes
Perhaps the line between horror/surprise…

I don’t know why my baby can’t sing.
Why carnival music isn’t her thing.
It fills my head when I’m at the fair.
Searching for clues in clowns everywhere.

I don’t know why she screams at night.
I hope it’s not why she holds me so tight.
Because I’m the type I’m weak for love.
Carnival music I rise above.

Is it the pain or is it the tears?
For some carnival crime from yesteryears.
Maybe it’s you, maybe I’ll never know.
Maybe it’s me, baby let go.

(chorus)

Humpty Dumpty sat on the wall. Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.
All the kings horses and all the kings men.
Tried and they tried but she fell down again.

Humpty Dumpty sat on the wall Humpty Dumpty had a great fall
She went to her shrink ended up at the mall.
Humpty Dumpty wanted it all.

Dennis Mantin

In the beginning… I saw glimpses of what you might call normal in the living rooms and kitchen tables of schoolyard friends. Those friendships never lasted for me, and in time, they ceased to exist even in my memory…

My behavior? I guess it was odd. Angry and loud. Sullen and sad or boisterous and much too much. The invitations dried up and faded fast. “He is strange.” I often heard.

I was tolerated as a boy. Feared in larger shoes. I moved a lot. Shifting. Fading. Reappear like smoke in mist…

Spent some time in the shadows there, with  others going nowhere. Found out I didn’t fit there either.

“You are strange.” I was told.

“What is this strange you speak of? I have nothing to compare with, really. I do not know this comparative myth of normalcy.”

In time, I grew quiet and introspective and listened to wise counsel who told me the source of my strange. I was childish, emotionally sensitive, and idealistic… and oh, so angry.

I looked into this-faced my fears, and asked for spiritual help.

Things are so much better, and I am far from normal. Being a bastard has shaped me. I couldn’t be with normal friends. Normal girls wouldn’t date me. They all let me know by rejection that I wasn’t worthy. This is what not having a father creates…