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road works have been there some time,
you came through before your diagnosis.

did you see the copper beech at gelligemlyn
where the house is for sale. i saw it yesterday,
as if it had never been. from the mist inside
it grew, leaves hanging a fragile thread. tudor
lace in air, few  fell. the light turned green.

we drove on our way, i have no photograph.
we betray
our bodies
fluid in nature
despite our bones

when we ****
the pure
waters with
rubber oil speak

we are She
dancing in
the blood
giving us life

remember Her
for She is the silent
waters within us
sometimes raging
sometimes calming

be soft and
whisper to Her with
a sacred tongue
then you shall
be blessed
with favor
Archie,

out here,
in Seligman,

this wind
does not whip your face

there is no wind;

just  hot white heat
that makes it hard to write--

but I do it
even though the sun makes
the paper

a mirage-- or mirror
I don't know which

if a mirror,
then it's your reflection I see

not your face
but your lines your words

and how you'd best
describe the emptiness

and your sense of it

the southwest!


well,
that's all for now

All the best,

Whit
She sits still in a corner
He juts in to the room
White butterflies adorn her
He carries darkest doom


She keeps her feelings hidden
He knows of them and sighs
She cowers as was bidden
They both eye up her thighs


She loves those undeserving
Ignoble hands, he grasps
She holds his gaze unnerving
He takes without an ask


She mounts a throne of wounding
He spouts a light impure
She counts the nights in bruising
His will to shape contours


She bathes herself in shadow
He takes with him the light
She dreams it a fandango
He lets her think she's right


She makes her home the corner
He makes her house a hell
She smiles inside her torpor
He knows she'll never tell
In this world,
We live but a corseted
Life,

But, in You,
We live full and
Free --
Robert,

I’m writing to you
because

you’re the only one
who

would get me
and this,

driving three hundred miles
and not

remembering

why,

and in an attempt

to get in front of panic
and paranoia

you let the neon
and the smell of fry grease

hand you
your story,

your purpose,

like a plate of barbecue
and flat beer.

All the best,

Whit
As a child, the backyard was
my sanctuary and my
playground.
I climbed the soft
pine tree and crawled to
the top of the garage.
I stood and gazed at all the
houses and streets.
I felt rich.

My mom had a brown
jewelry box shaped like
a treasure chest.
It reminded me of
pirates and adventure.
I filled it with
football cards
gum
candy bars
family pictures, and a few
coins.

I found a small shovel
and buried it in the
backyard close to the
pine tree.
I pretended to forget
where it was.
A week or so later, I
suggested to my best friend,
Wally, that we should
search my yard for buried treasure.

Of course, we found it.
I acted surprised.
We celebrated.
All these years later,
I realize that my treasure,
then and now, is imagination.
I'm a wealthy man.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Noa4ztEUFDA
Here is a link to my you tube channel where I do poetry readings from my latest books, Seedy Town Blues, It's Just a Hop, Skip, and a Jump to the Madhouse, and Sleep Always Calls.  They are available on Amazon.
You can accept
Be grateful
You cannot expect anything in this world
Regardless of the relationship or source
The reasons don't matter
Be gracious
Walk away with your head held high
Let go and move forward
there is something about
the soft afternoon sunlight
pouring in through my window,
it makes me smile lazily,
blinking slowly,
makes me warm inside
like only 3:30
in the afternoon can,
nowhere to go,
nowhere to be

in all the right ways
it rubs so gently
into my senses,
i cant explain

there is a golden hour,
mid afternoon,
the heat of the day remains,
but the sunlight
has mellowed
into a buttery yellow
that i can taste

the rooms have become still
and quiet
so as to not disturb
this moment
of absolute divinity


the grandfather clock
ticks even slower,
holding the moments
silently between its ticks
and its tocks

condensation on the
iced sweet tea drips
with languid indifference,
the air stills
and the light pours in
like a delicious mouthful
of warm peach slices
and vanilla ice cream

what bliss
to be able taste
this part of summer,
to feel its oh so gentle silk
on my skin,
to close my eyes,
to breathe in the sunshine
and have its soft amber easiness
kiss my forehead
like i am
summers beloved
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