I long for the majestic
sunset of your hair,
windblown, dancing across my cheek…
The burnt orange and lavender…
I want to consume every drop.
I’m thirsty for your
footsteps near my bed, parched with
desire for your presence—your essence.
How long until you wet my
tongue, and quench this fire?
I stalk slumber like a shadow…
my only release from the
hunger and yearning for your
moist lips, like peaches
pressed against mine.

Suddenly
the lights
turn
back on,

After 3
screeches
from the
transformer,

And a week
of sleeping
on the leather
couch

And the
tile floors
when it
got too hot,

A sense
of relief
rushes
through me,

The ac turns
back on
and I turn
the kitchen
lamps on,

It feels alive,
it breaths
through
the walls,

And exhales
through
the old vents.

My friend asks
me where I get
the fodder for
writing my poems.
I tell him, life.
He says that's too
simple.
He isn't satisfied.
I tell him that
sometimes, I sit at
my desk and open
the window above the
litterbox, and look
outside at the
orange daylilies and
wait.

He says he writes
from a small place above
his left ear.
It tickles at times, but
often it's painful.
I nod and make a
note to call my
doctor about the
headaches I've been having.

He reads his posey at
the coffee shops while
drinking espresso and
chatting with the other
young poets in sweaters.
I tell him that I used
to live under a bridge,
I read my poems to the
savage river and the
Mallard ducks, and the
drunk friends that
wandered in for a drink of
***** or a beer.
He says the little place above
his left ear is beginning to
hurt.

I walk him to the door and
tell him goodbye.
He asks if I will come
to the coffee shop to
hear him read his poetry.
"Sure", I say, smiling blankly.
After closing the door,
I sit and smile at the view from
my window.
I can smell the freshly cut
grass, and hear the
grinding whine of the
lawnmower.
A woman across  
the street is lying in
the sun.
She's wearing a turquoise
bikini and big sunglasses.
Just then, a slight hint
of coconut wafts into my room.
I get hard and pick up the pen.

Take only what you can carry,
Only what you need.
Just enough to feed and water
You and a faithful steed.

Forget the path well trodden,
That will not help you on your way.
Instead forge your own trail
For others to follow one day.

Never shy from an opportunity
Throw yourself through every door.
For this life is an adventure,
Now go,
Explore!

Sprinklers Watering the garden yard
a turtle slid down a hill landing hard. Walking on a path of cobble stone
is a Precarious way to say hello alone

Super dog noticed him first
Very curious searching for a water burst 
 Big as a football came from good seed.
The first order of business, food weeds,

A box water greenery survival what to eat.
Definitely keep them off of the street.
Identified as A Red Eyed Slider Turtle
common for these parts their fertile  

Yellow and Red stripes on his face and feet.
His shell looks like he took some heat.
Sticking his head out of his Shell
To look at his new space safe and well

Standing on his hind feet tall
Trying to get over the box wall
This turtle’s habitat is in water a float
Filled water in the base of the boat

Was this a pet, asked neighbors to no avail
He needed a forever home too early to tell
Turtle bay will not take a stray
Haven humane had a lot to say

Wild turtles are common in these parts
Will travel miles to water he’s smart
Take him to a lake river or stream
One that doesn’t dry up from heat steam

A water source fountainhead to call home
A place with other turtles, so he’s not alone
Twin pines Mobile home has a large pond
Two streams run in and out far beyond

The pond is home to ducks turtles frogs
Elderly spy deer while they walk dogs
A protected sanctuary Critters of all kinds
Look closely count how many you can find

The turtle was put on the bank of the pond
His examined the water beyond
He slid down the bank a torpedo tank
One smooth swoop, and he was gone

in the middle of the pond an island bar
His head popped up his swim wasn’t far
The Pond leads to rivers streams as far as San Francisco Bay many places to play

I imagine he came for help that fateful day
Escaping heat no water red dirt of clay
Little fertile turtle our two day turtle
We visit. He has a home to roam and play

Hobbled by the
sun, and laid
prostrate by
days of
degenerate
behavior.
Days of
nothingness,
and worse.
Only writing
could save me.

Poor and lonely.
No warm woman to
hold.
No *****.
No home.
But, I had my
writing.
It let the light in,
and buffered me from
the crowds of
scarecrows with sewn
on smiles.

Writing keeps me
immortal and kills
the pain.
It soothes the
mice lost in
the maze, and
brings the stray cat
home to a house where
he's safe.
Writing is the
pillow that keeps
my head up, and
my heart engaged.

The wildflower liked being in the wild.
Flourishing in silent peace
while dancing in the wind.



Shell ✨🐚