the ripe winds
perch upon the threads of
western disturbance

trading through the
vastness of liquid turmoil

flowing and cutting
across the narrowest
of vengeance

that has laid upon
this land flourishing
under a disguise:
of mere nothingness and
certain similarity;

for who knows
what converses with the
frigid north

and talks to the
passes of the mighty
peaks of middle Asia

walking past the grandeur
of the Himalayas, and it's
many ancient towns

where no other
has been of any importance
whatsoever

there in the sweet solace
of solitude and crisp sunrises

i find myself dreaming
of the tranquil winds, and
ancient passageways:

far from Nazareth and
the cradle of men

where the old brick
roads now sleep in dusk

and there's nothing
left to conquer

built upon the spectacular
-- on this olden earth

i find myself yearning
for little things.

His nimble hand has begun to remove the pictures he sketched many millennium ago.

Daddy, you’re my favorite person…
And yet… I’d hate to lose you.

It hurts to see the condition you’re in…
while seeking where your true souls’ been.

I cry every night, knowing that I can’t sleep…
Nostalgia mixed with how you are now, hurts me this deep.

Memories of good times created are pondering in my head… repeating your meaningful words to me, that you’ve said.

I’ll be your spiritual comfort… like you’ve always been towards me.

Underneath the physical drain & pain,
you’re big heart in this world is what I’ll see….

Mist, dew and rose.

Three songbirds rose
Their wings quiet—
Weaved a riot—

Breath, then bone and blood
Whispered to noise from, for mud
Let them grieve, let them—
Yet another young note
On the hard-baked stem.
Restrained do not

Cry
Nor bleed or melt a flushed blue
Pearly melodies of sky
Do no do, do not do

Ask of liberty—
Pretty, petty property.
What of birds?
Clumsy drip-dropping words

Only a breath weeps
Only bone shakes
All ballads, the blood keeps
Only the carcass wakes

And silent, silent goes
Into the blooming blue goes—

To you, gardener,
of flowers under oozing rays of honey.
Who in your memory helped bloom,
vibrant beauty, so absent from this summer.

To you, gardener,
who gives colors from yellow, blue, green and red Hughes.
which explode like a choir amongst the rocks and air.
in your explosive tune, that your dove,
vessel of posthumous beauty, takes flight.

For you, who helped him bloom!
That took him out of the dark,
as you turned a bud into a flower,
coal into a diamond,
a babe into an eagle.

For you, after that one night.
Left him in solitude, as you dreamed amongst the stars.
For you, sweet gardener, unleashed his celestial voice,
as he searched amongst the thorns of time and space.
crying, begging, pleading for reunification.

He forgot the stars,
  he lost his spark,
      he danced for the night,
          as he begged, pleaded, lost in flight
                   praised and saddened by your glory,
like you sweet gardener, I want to raise a flower,
  watch it bloom, watch it sing, watch it soar,
          but never leave it alone. . .

When was the last time we had a sweet conversation?