Tell me, voice,
How much time have you spent
touching heads and hearts?
Demanding to shape new worlds,
giving hope through despair?

This is a community of Catchers Dreamers,
growing as they look out of their windows.
They glue a torn truth,
completing and filling in new meanings
and symbols to push away
cruel and illogical realities,
political performances.

Today, it’s so difficult to write poems
in the empty spaces,
when money assigns values
to be or not to be.

Opening the little *****
with a metaphor, and pain,
they spin, reading and writing
silver threads are punching their hands
impossible to relieve this irreversible tension.

What a beautiful tone of
polyphonic orchestral poetic flow,
of thousands, millions of words,
serious and bitter losses,
coming closer and much closer
to a Common Human Denominator.

A morning of overcast sky in Nevada
Is very like landscapes painted by El Greco.
Cobalt sky smeared with silver gray shadows
In a candy floss tumble of gunmetal clouds
Gives a subtle light that makes things mysterious
And creates a canopy of comfort for a winter day.
ljm

Clock hands go lazily – tick-tock.
Why should they rush? It’s almost midnight.
The Night doesn’t need their help at all.
She comes into its own rights.

She’s powerful over all that’s here.
And under its cover of darkness and gloom
We are all here, all to the last man.
We’re all locked up now in full.

We’re like prisoners of this Night,
Calm, submissive and tamed.
And clock hands go straight and true,
They’re unfailing attached.

I’m a stranger in the Night.
Ask her let me come in.
Maybe she'll let me stay the night
And I’ll find the peace and meaning.