His gift was liquid melody
It collected at the brow , trickled
down his face , splattered onstage ,
it soaked the score page , invited
his following to engage , provided a
river of thought , he shared freely of his
complicated mind then suddenly he was gone* ...

Hello there, Poetry...
It's been far too long,
This hack has been stuck,
Amidst sorrow's song,

A turning of seasons
Can make pilgrims blue,
The sadness of change
Can be hard to wade through

Hello, Poetry,
It's no one, just me
I invite you, ...come in!
Come set my soul free!

Helpless.
I can't even

Break
The habit

Of eating too much.
Even the dog notices.

Seems this pan of brownies isn't working...

half gone...
...still sad.

I gather smells from
the garden near
the well
where
every drop drank
will be worth
my toil.

I don't write here often
Anymore
But I felt a need to spread the seed
To say that
You're not the only one
Who's trying
To find peace

The fallen tears of empty vessels
shed droplets of crimson, washing
away memories that once inhabited
this now still statue of innocence meaning.

A landscape of abstract oppression where
everyday a new creation upon the heavens
falls and what was is now a contrast of before.

Children dream in solitude listening to the rain
falling, hoping that one bead will not linger upon
their location crumbling there home like paper mache.

Friends lie crumpled and silent, there tears
fall on dusty memories, and then they hear the
ominous recurring motions that rain falls once more.