We all are hi-fi
                    Hybrid music;
I mean the sound as pollen falls, hanging
Basket case
Full mainly of love, as
A generous darkening awakes
                    Its slumber.
Play louder we hum to it,
As it flows its course – Its nuance.

We are the main-line, streaming
Entertainment from the soul, followed
insidiously by shadow, and
all other craven gasps of light
                   Which form from the physical.

Let’s sit and listen;
Only until the end has ended
                   And all is utterly still.

Dried grass under moon
shadow and woodbine walks

hang around hands wandering
the flowing river talks

intrepid, exploring all possibilities
of those three fragile words.

The first to fly the flock
does not always get there first

into September - March
from Summer
The dying warmth without

beauty in crimson, yellow leaves,
and chance of melancholy bout.

A particular dampness to the soul
must exist for the poet to appear
inherently honest.

In the garden
                they all play
thorns against the breeze
and butterfly leaves.

Red roses in the garden - Sour red
with sweet bread she brings, sings
and whispers, swapping steps closer.

A toothless daisy becomes a sun.
Beauty into beauty, shaking
               her hair undone.

In the garden
               they all play
thorns against the breeze;
she moves not to capture darting eyes,
watching butterfly leaves,
watching butterfly leaves.

Under the Autumn pastel fire

Yellow and reddening browns
                                                Fall
Like rusty petals
Floating from Summers dying side;
                                               And vanish

In the sweet smoky perfume of bonfire

          Leaving their final reminder
          For nostalgia is several years.

Feathering time
                        Through the skin
Of yellowing classics,
Elsewhere, not reading
How far I've dragged these fettered years.

Inky thoughts pass the fingers,
No room for words between swollen lines:

Everything is darkness and whispers.

We come together
like the first closing

surrendering warm silk
of tongue like flesh

against the milk
between our skin

wrapped in arms
and mute quotations

we sink
to safely float
              and fall
behind the eyes.

Time has wilted the meaning of sunflower.
Rusty skulls, crowns of crisp silk
stifled in their attempts to move, crook
and assume a new place in existence.

They lay in grey pallet against the table;

And now are lions heads roaring at the sun.