my mother would sing me
this song as a baby-
remembering,the power of sound.

for three quarters of the year
my mother she would steer
me from dreams to true love.

and that day, when you have gone
melted back into the dawn
I know you'll still hear me somehow.

for you, I will play, every song- in the way
that I know you'll receive, and retain.
Ill play those songs you love ..Me Do!
Hideaway, Over the Rainbow, Mrs. Robinson too


ill play the purest, sweet sound.
In Awe, Ill foster such simplistic beauty
Because the day I sit on that bench,
to play the Piano, as I have throughout my entire life,
The day I inherent it's entirety
That inevitably hollow day...
When only my ears
Feel it's vibrations.
When only my mind
Floats inside it's rhythm.
That day When
you've gone
too.

How will it sound?

The alarm tolls,
On their rude device-
It's time for work
& yet still, despite
the thousand fascets
of one reality
These
middle-aged
Half-life(s),
These Newbrunswickin Chavs
Wouldn't recognize, really,
That Despite
the riddle's answer, Being  E;
& that double decade,
One might have over me,

When direct
Questions
go unanswered; The respect
I require
(now unvield)
Shapeshifts,
Off, into the past
Oh, how I  become

The Whip

Ruthlessly;
they crack
The Whip                        
& with
All that I am,

the past, In desperation, I forcefully trick
As the blackness, of my being
Forms a darkness,  spilling thick.
Engulfing light- mind's eye's Unseeing,  
Consumes oneself, like a candles wick -
Illuminating every route (for fleeing)
For me, the lights still on- homesick.

Forcefully, faithfully; to keep on believing, & even

just to keep the pathway lit-  by headlight, sunbeam, or doomscrolling trip-
Understand why might a human being
'S now become The Whip

Life is complex, she said to me
A statement unfortunately true,
Reiterating the fact, real happiness
Has become a fleeting virtue.
The single most excruciating task
Of anyone to ever, have to ask-
Is to live this life, so full of pain
As the human race, itselve's disdain
Yet, its as effortless as drawing breath
The simplicity of air
Our automatic processes
That which contagiously, we share:
Laughter, Heartache, Hatred, Hope-
the humanistic ways to cope.

Despite that complexities insue,
You know strength, to let faith renue
Bestow some courage, place belief
In all that initially brings you grief

Every morning, a new dawn's shining-
& every cloud, has it's silver lining.

The babble of the valley Brooke
A rush- the flowing, liquid memory moving
Downstream.
Water; the stillness of
a puddle
A pond, the pooling-
scintillates & permeates.
A gentel lapping
against the creekside,
A skip-stone-scape beneath the wetness
Augments the heavy water
As nature's soundtrack.