Jan 2018

You Get What You Pay For

You Get What You Pay For

Everyday another headline blares
as I tearfully stare into uncertain future's godless glare.

Never in my life, in this unique experiment on this blue hurtling sphere in space, have we come so close to authoritarian delight, (“Don't cook tonight, call chicken delight.”)

When I watched the apprentice 10 years ago,
I admit that I was awe struck by this bigger-than-life man and his family plan to rule his empire with an iron hand.

Palatial Billionaires hiring and firing in rapid-fire succession with little regard for feelings or individuality.

These inhumane statues made of gold plated skin, sardonic grin,
slithering manikins.

I always had a difficult time trusting anyone who wears a suit everyday, even on weekends, perhaps even while showering.

Artists, poets, actors, musicians, visionaries, news media, environmentalists, educators have become enemies of the state.

Smells of another time, another place, another dictatorial race, smelling up the garbage heap of this hurtling sphere in space.

Dennis Wayne Bressack
Woodstock, New York
May 10, 2017



I sit in the tub dreaming,
embarking on the next phase,
the future stage upon which
we two act in our pre-destined play.

I cry not because of sadness
but more gratefulness
to the woman who made this beautiful home
a part of my life.

Nostalgia beckons me to stay
wishes to hold back time,
to recite the same rhyme,
over and over again and again.

I relinquish those thoughts.
What great mystery lies ahead!
What secrets will you unfold?
What stories will we have to tell?

My heart forever in your heart,
my soul ever bound to your soul,
your love ever leading the way
onto the next and next unfolding day.

Dennis Wayne Bressack
Woodstock, New York
May 31, 2017

The Stalker

The Stalker

Paradise is just around the corner
stalking me like an FBI agent,
taunting me like a demonic clown,
strangling my thoughts,
merely along for the roller coaster ride.

Stretched to the treetops,
never sanctioning the light,
nor shining a sanguine adage,
smothering any bliss within,
slicing my rapture into petite pieces.

Dennis Wayne Bressack
Woodstock, New York
December 30, 2017

Christmas Eve In Woodstock

Christmas Eve in Woodstock

It is Christmas Eve in Woodstock
Santa is coming to our little town
snuggled at the edge of Overlook Mountain.

For over 90 years, he has arrived in a different mode
always with pomp and circumstance
and child-like anticipation
rock band playing “Santa Claus is Coming to Town.”

(Hell, you’re in Woodstock. Of course it’s a rock band.)

These carefully guarded secrets of
who is Santa, what tactic will be used,
float in rumor ruminations
weeks before his arrival.

I am reminded of those nights
when my little boy sat on my shoulders
just to catch a glimpse of Santa
and patiently waited on line
to receive the precious holiday stocking
filled with fruit and candy.

Then, like all good Jews,
we went home for Chinese Food
and the all day marathon
at the Movie Theater on Christmas Day.

Dennis Wayne Bressack
Woodstock, New York
December 25, 2017

Mirror Of Reality

Mirror Of Reality

The morning sun streaks yellow, orange, pink, blue and grey
horizontal layers upon a palatial pallet
hiding behind inevitable thoughts
of life, love and death in my cross to bear.

Swollen eyes conjure fleeting memories of children
singing and dancing in warm waters
building sandcastles they think will live forever
washed into the ocean by incessant tides of time.

I want to sleep it off,
this hellish hangover the morning after,
praying that perhaps it is a drug-induced lie,
fueled by slight insanity of bleeding mirror of reality.

Even in this beautiful world in which I now wander,
I am one step from tumbling into crevices of guilt and grief,
that swallow my heart and burn my soul,
leaving no escape from this well-worn path.

Dennis Wayne Bressack
Woodstock, New York
December 24, 2017