Someday we'll be just like a garden,
growing together in our souls.
Sharing the flowering dreams,
blending the new with the old.
Tasting the bitter-sweet flowers,
which grab, but have no hold.

Sunday's peace will stay the same
throughout the multi-varied week.
Living to feel and love together.
Accepting that strong may be weak.
Finding that the newborn flowers
join our hearts as we begin to meet.

Someday we'll have peace
when all borders are erased.
Remembering that love is forever
Flowing in from almost every place
Someday we'll be as a garden
growing together as we race.

Yesterday's pain all forgotten.
Tomorrow's peace growing free.
Someday we'll flow as a river
meeting together at the sea.
Growing into the garden
where tomorrow's world will be.

I'm buying knick-knacks
to bring to Heaven.
Odds and ends to
comfort me
when I cross over.
Little things to
remind me
of living
on this planet.

I'm packing mementos
to bring to Heaven.
Small things
that will remind me
of everyone
I knew on earth.
Articles of
collectibles
that I can hold
or look at
when
I miss them.

Feet are walking,
albeit slower,
to the door that
leads to release.
The bright light
I've heard about
will be shining
for me.

Maybe I'll be
like a toss of smoke?
Able to watch
the final performance.
Check out
who bought tickets
and
who
declined to attend.
Flicker around
the homes and places
where my loved ones
live their days.

Will I be able
to touch them?
This I do not know.
If so,
I'll stroke
cheeks with fondness,
informing them
of how I valued
them in my
physical form.

I wonder if
I will find
knick-knacks of me
in their
hearts?

once a daydream collected
on my soul and I kissed
its breath so much it blew
gently away
it had pleasure from
my attention and called
on other daydreams
to join in the web of
salted yawning I
promised to provide

once a winter storm
crashed into my roof
and I applauded it so strongly
it continued to devastate
the house
engulfing every shadow
that crept quietly
behind the walls

once a voice trampled
on my daydreams
I asked it to go away
and not be around me
anymore

why are you still here
with me
can't you see that I am lonely?

I'm dying,
Feeling the comforting cloud of death
doing flip-flops through my strain.
Energy bursts are useless attempts
     at frosting flakes of panic and regrets.
Slipping.
Forgetting.
Curt instructions from a dangerous smile.

Cloud of death. Your mysterious tension
        caresses every
        blood-vein in my body.
My lungs restrict,
my lungs constrict.
Empty shallow boxes
      filled with the nothing of
        resistance.

Can’t anyone see? Does anybody know?

Does
    anybody
     have the
      slightest idea
       of just how
        tiresome
         paying
          attention
           can be?

So let me go. So leave me alone.
Let the fibres of believing unravel,
        slip apart
        like
        cracked glass
          about to
          shatter.
I'm hurting.
Disillusioned membranes zoning into silence.
The self-illusion so palpable and strong.
Hope
      is for people
             who have
                   flowers to grow.

Most people get married
believing
in the myth that doing
so will bring about
life-long contentment.
They fail to understand
that sometimes
different flowers
are not meant to grow
in the same garden.
Things change. People change.
Love begun
can become
love undone.
The swirls and twirls
of living together
can come to define
different directions.
The marriage box
might start out
with commitment
and understanding.
A shared set of goals
that expresses itself
in shapes and patterns
of mutual anticipation.
It's sad when this changes.
When you wake up one day
and realize
you are struggling to
hold a conversation.
When there is really
nothing left to say
to one another.
Sentences are empty
of depth and
lined with wax paper
like a discarded
sandwich.
And there will
come a day,
a sobering day,
when she will say,
"I've met another.
I'm not in love with you,
anymore."

Do no harm.
  Leave the war-plane frame of reference
       to other puzzle pieces.
We are naked.
We are not.
We are not certain of which
         monologue to begin.
So we chant in
       unified panting
         etching legends
          out of rhymes.
Do no harm.
    Do no harm.
It matters now that the growing telephones
          are charged like neglected
         poisons of dampening redials.
Truth is gaining wisdom like
         groups of formatted crosses
           jumping like splinters
          of margarine jars.
We are naked.
We are not.
We are one with living and prepared
          for the drying of the hands.
Clean me up and leave me outside.
Sun gone but wind remaining.
Do no harm.
    Do no harm.
      Do no harm.

Touch me with your heart, my love,
as we once did so very long ago.
Let the tip-tap of nostalgia dangle
perceptions of what once were.

I desisted from being content
when you mentioned it was over.
The day I moved my treasures out
was a day linked in melancholy.

Oh my lover, oh my forgiven wife,
trip your way back over here.
Remember the slurping grasping
that so occupied our time.

Touch me with your heart, my love,
come back from the new that you are.
Let me stroke your inner vision
to see me again as your special one.