What makes a poet ?
That was my thought
I mulled it over and
Came up with these oughts :

Late nights with
coffee , tea or beer
Perhaps harder stuff
Whiskey , smoke or gin clear

And the struggles and pain
as the birth is exclaimed
Blood , sweat and tears
Falling as hard as ice on rain

Confessionals made
As black on white page
Love , death , fears
Even extreme rage

One who struggles
with the a's and the's
Should one even use
The apostrophe

One who's words
Gel by the witching hour
Words full of promise  
Warnings so dour

But perhaps greatest of all
Before even the start
One must have
a true poet's heart

let's hope this magic won't ever fade
because here in your arms i want to stay.
your love has been more than enough,
your arms around me, warm to the touch.
i look at you and it seems so clear;
together, right now
we were meant to be here.
your bright eyes sparkle in the sun
you make me feel forever young

Sleep*
  Hanging in the eyes

           They struggle to open
But are tightly glued shut
  
              I wonder then,
When the dream began and ended

          And if I was ever awake
                        *At all

[prose poem]

          I never noticed how mine these hands are. There, glossy, rinsed clean. Do I want to move my fingers? They will. All of them, they will.
Underneath the water's gloss I see the lines; some ragged and some fine, some smaller and some smaller than the small.
          Though I am no author of what I own, I can see how precious is His gift– and it's been here all this time.
I don't need too look too far. Even for clothes or something to dine. Though I am content with those, I've had, here,
          these hands of mine.

You inhabit the world
As a sculpture of the wind.
        
Your radiant forms,
Feast of light and shadows.

In the center of perception,
Watching you makes everything real.

Aroma of nakedness,
I devour your feast of forms.

Transfigurations, endless possibilities;
Your body is the the bridge over the abyss.

We have a snug retreat far in the woods
Not bigger than a robin’s nest
But cozy and comfy for just two souls
A hide out from the fuss n’ fever of life

It has a small garden hemmed with a hedge
Neatly laid out in décor and taste
And gleaming with refreshing verdure
The haunt of butterflies and honey bees

An ideal place to sneak away, now and then
From life’s pressing cares and concerns
Here the air is pristine sans soot and fumes
A confluence where peace and beauty unite

Here we break loose the tethers
From the rigid civilities of urban living
Throw away the habits of reserve
And become joyous and freehearted

Sometimes we make an impromptu trip
Sometimes we plan it well in advance
Whatever it be, being here is fun
And enjoy our stay like a weekend picnic

On some evenings we go gathering
Succulent fruits and wild berries
And roam to the wide stretch of open fields
Lying furrowed waiting for seasonal crops

More than ever we now seek solitude
It is in the quiet and not in the noise
That we are able to plumb life’s depths
That we listen to our hearts’ songs

It is here our souls acquire dove’s wings
Though time has taken its toll from our bodies
Though youth and beauty have gone for ever
Still we walk in the woods with hands clasped!