he waits until his feet
hit his dirt floor before
he thanks the Great One
for allowing the sun
to rise again    

he walks through
well worn weeds to make
water, and again gives thanks
he could pass the water, and saw
no serpent in the grass  

this is a blessed day
for he has yams and fruit
left in his hut; he finds little
mold on these gifts from the
ground, the trees    

he looks to the sky
for omens--it is mauve
with morning, but the clouds
have no foreboding shapes
again, he gives thanks  

before and after his repast,
there are the prayers, then the silence
in which he has learned he will hear the voice
which commands all, its words in cadence
with the slow beating in his chest

to be you is to leave a life
painted with regret in twitchy
strokes that reveal unsteadiness
in every movement of the brush

i work in certainty more often
than not, seeing the colors before
they splatter on canvass, a predetermined
image fixed in my mind's eye

my palette has changed, no longer
faded and full of sadness, now there
is a luster to the tones splayed before me,
a freedom to the movements i make

i am becoming the you, the me, my
art had always dreamed it would one
day be, i am unveiling my greatest work
yet, effortlessly beautiful in it's simplicity

It’s not that big a surprise
How much I adore Amsterdam
Like immigrants long ago
So welcomed here just as I am
In the historic Lloyd Hotel
To witness a wedding so swell
I’m glad I’m here in Amsterdam

Canals and bikes aplenty
Whizzing past on every street
The Keukenhof gardens amazed
VanGogh’s Museum made me weep
I’m glad I’m here in Amsterdam

We walked for miles & took the train
Our flight home I made not a peep
It must have been that Space Cake
We ate it and went right to sleep
A fond farewell to Amsterdam

Last night
I lifted my head
to the sky
seemingly
not so far away
like my dog on the porch
listening
to the songs of the frogs
singing up a storm
I asked her, sweet mutt
of mine to interpret
their words
and she looked at me
as if to say
just listen my friend
they sing of the wind
and the pines
the ocean
that great saltwater dish
where we were born
and the coming
of a great tide
and how we should be
more kind
to our Mother
the Earth tomorrow
on her Birthday
they sing instructions
and warnings
of obituaries heard
in a thunderous warming
then she sighed
and closed her eyes
thumping her tail
in time with the chorous
as the moon
raised his great blind eye
up over the forest.

with moonlight, he travels mostly
at night, past snoring hikers and embers
of fires that cooked their food, kept darkness
at bay, and heard what they had to say

if the coals could only speak, perhaps
he would find the right circle of stones,
a black heap of carbon that once glowed
red and gold, and her tale would be told

at least he would know the last words
she spoke in this wilderness--whether she
chose to vanish into the deep wood, fodder
for the scavengers

or was the prey of evil men,
who lurk at every turn--in bustling city
and quiet forest as well--vipers who strike
without warning, without curse or cause

when the moon's light wanes, he moves yet
in darkness, feeling his way, a nocturnal detective,
hoping to find what the others have given up
for lost and registered among the dead:

sign or scent of her--black coals or white bones,
a piece of tattered clothing, the canvas backpack
with her name, the hiking boots he laced for her
which left tracks he forever yearns to find...

In spring with green buds
I dream of flowers, the silk petals of your lips
the flashing of butterfly lashes
soft upon my flesh
kisses flitting soft winged
across my face
in a myriad of colors
we'll create.