In a bowered place that only
Pixies know about
Tucked down between
The weeping willow’s boughs,
And not far from a singing rivulet
There lives a butterfly with gorgeous wings,
Transparent in the morning sun  
And luminous at twilight.
Her wings are patterned in chartreuse
With royal purple fantasies
That end in trailing gossamer.
Feeding on the buttercups and clover,
Her afternoons are bathed in a tranquility
That obviates the need to fly.
And so the gentle butterfly does not,
But rests and ponders what is on the breeze
That transforms air to symphonies
And blends with everything nearby
To make a perfect potpourri
Of serenity and peace.
ljm

I knocked on numerous doors before
But never was let inside
Until I found you.
Now I discover pathways open
That were invisible to me before,
And thank you.

I turned away from so many things
That couldn’t be understood
Before I knew you.
Now suddenly a pattern forms
And life begins to make sense when
Shared with you.

I gave my memories away
To people who couldn’t use them
Previous to you.
Now each episode becomes a part
Of the growing treasure that is my
Life with you.

I was hungry and cold and sad and tired
Before you saved me.
Now I’m filled with warmth and joy and strength -
All the gifts you gave me.
Ls

All that I am I give to you this day,
That you may share in all that I ever shall be.
                                      Ls

You are different
You don't look like them
You have nothing in common with them
They torture you with comments, giggles, and making you feel as if you don't go with the flow
You can just go and be ignored
Parents and teachers told you to forget it and let it go
Easier said than done and kids can be cruel
It is their way or the highway
So lunchtime you sat alone
Read and did your homework
Your best friend was writing and poetry
Same holds true today
Difference is I don't take CRAP from anyone
Haven't got time for the those who don't know how to be kind and caring
Princesses and Princes of the world male and female, yes you.

C@rainbowchaser 2023

Last night I dreamed of
Pismo beach, our blanket
on the sand, hidden in the
cratered dunes, the sweet
sweat of love making and
sandy deep wet kisses with
you, and the sunburn on my
backside that followed.
Memorable youthful passions
fondly recalled, never forgotten.

My first impressions were mind expanding,
filled with crushing throngs of busy people
all moving, their clamor and noise unrelenting.
The enduring, evocative scents and smells of
a culture thousands of years old and thriving.

The wide mud brown life's blood Ganges
River flowing through the heart of the city,
filled with wooden crafts of all descriptions,
people on the banks bathing, washing clothes,
living, open funeral pyres burning, life and
death laid bare for all eyes to see as it has been
since Time Immemorial.

On the street's flowers and music in abundance,
women in colorful, to drab Sari dresses denoting
their stature, along with some men in western attire
but most in sarongs and open toed sandals. While
walking the streets every few blocks the at first
shocking sight of impoverished recently deceased
bodies laid out on the sidewalks upon straw mats,
swaddled in cloth wrappings awaiting donation
offerings enough to pay for their funeral fires.

Unaccustomed to seeing Westerners the people pause
and stare as if we were from outer space visitors, if we
stopped moving, unthreateningly and wide eyed they
would surround us, perhaps unsure what they are seeing.

A mutually curious encounter, Humanity visited up
close and personal. Aw yes, I fondly remember India.

Like my life, all my kitchen crockery
is used, worn and chipped,
Maybe I could buy replacements,
but sadly, they do not make them
like that anymore. Or me either.

Aging and time are unavoidable.

What has it been, over four years
since we lay naked in each other's
arms, breathing each other's breath,
enfolded entwined clinging skin to
skin upon damp bedsheets, with
the scent of your evocative perfume
and our spent passions strong in
the air of that room, lit only by two
flickering candles on a bedside table.
It is your touch and caress even more
than the *** that is remembered and
missed.

Two grandparents, friends and lovers
in their twilight years, one last night
that shall never come again, relegated
to sweet fading memories and shadows
on their own 600 mile far distant bedroom
walls, and a phone call now and then.