A shining star in the night sky  
A sliver of a moon
The burning wick of a candle in darkness
A bud pushing itself out from the ground
A green leaf on a winter-worn tree
The silver lining in a dark cloud
A rainbow after rain
The first rays of morning sunshine
The light at the end of a tunnel
The promise of a happy ending
The laughter of a baby
The antics of a puppy
A bird in flight
A hand
A smile
The words —
Everything will be all right

Hope
The rope of life
We hold on to
Gingerly
For without hope
Where would we be?

Outside the Catholic Church
Snowfalls in the square
Inside the Catholic Church
Alas, not enough air

              How unfair.

There must be
a hell where
forgotten
words and lines
dwell.
Similes scamper,
lost like beetles.
Bat winged metaphors
fly to that dark
hell of forgotten
poems.
If those wandering
words escape, they are
gone forever.

When I swim in
the ink, and the
writing streak starts,
the prose comes to
me while I try to nap.
Now, I sleep with
pen and paper,
to put the words in
that white paper
prison where they
belong.

It is too easy to decorate
yourself with plastic flowers when
the gardens of your heart
has withered.

none of the head angels liked looking
after the flowers. there was never enough
water in heaven for them.

then ian dream remembered:

go under the meadow
over the wave

you will arrive at station 4
press the blue button
and the flowers will automatically
be watered.

tea the angel rushed to try it out.
he pressed the blue button
and the springs for the flowers flowed.

the flowers in heaven started singing
with happiness and it was so beautiful
everyone cried.

speech is a service that can heal the world.
So let it be sweet and true, always.

Wind sweeps me along
like the dry old leaves of yesteryear
dry and brittle
imprinted forever with the
memory of long languid summer
faded now to dark browns
far afield from the lively green
that was youth
ever-growing
never-ending
ever alive with all that I could do
but never did
dark sounds the bell that tolls
a dark song that only whispers sing
I am swept up into a stone-wrought doorway
and I nestle my sleepy head into its comfortable corner
sleep comes soon
restful wakefulness that is the edge of dreams
sleep comes nearer
and away, away with all the discomforts of life
watch them fall away like a veil of tears
away, away goes I into the sleep of ages
a new leaf born into the next world