As I hear the wind blow through the leaves of the ancient cottonwood trees.
And I watch the squirrels gather their nuts and prepare for the coming winter, I'm reminded of a few things that come softly in the whisper of the autumn wind for all to hear, if they listen.

Behind the poem is a poet, a lover, maybe a mother or a father. But most of all there is a human being. They feel, and they love. They have been overwrought with pain. And enraptured by Joy. They need  compassion and friendship and the human touch.
Tread lightly, for you tread upon
their hearts.

Up in the backwoods
Of Michigan, lives the
Traveling man name of Tim.
He's in a band, with a million fans, and I think it is a sin, that he's in better shape than I am, and I'm ******* younger than him.
Ever since he got bit by that possum, he will never be the same again.

My daughter talks to
her blueberries like
they're her friends.
My soul smiles
and I never want
it to end.

We used to talk about
going
to Montana--escaping it all,
building a log cabin and
making a garden.  We were
going to hunt and fish for
food--make rugs and
hats from the fur.

But look at us now.
You live in the
city and drive a Volvo.
Goldfish in a glass bowl.
You even taught your
cat to walk on
a leash.
Can you see the
sky with all the smog?

I'm not any better.
Living under the bridge;
the only hunting I do is
for cans, the rare and
illusive
aluminum nickel, so that
I can buy *****.  

I walk down to the
river's edge and look up at
the expansive sky.
I close my eyes.
And when I open them, baby,
we're in Montana.

It's sad.
HP feels like a ghost town
again.
What if all of us, in a
concerted effort supported
each other as poets?
If we have nothing else,
we have each other.
And we can back each other
and read our dying art, and comment.
PLEASE.

*** until the heart stops seems like the logical answer.
Death in sweat drenched ecstasy,
and preferably with
the nubile young Sherriff's wife.
Now, if she's not around, his sister
or Mother would do just fine.
Small town tasty freeze
serves as the last meal.
What a way to go,
behind some greasy cheeseburger
and chocolate shake.  Sheriff said the
budget wouldn't cover the French fries.
I don't care much about myself,
it's mama I'm worried about.
it will just break her heart...I ain't no good.
I hope I can see her if I can get to heaven.
Mama's the best in the world.