Honor the sword,
one cut separates
all.

The wind chill is
frozen blue like
paint.

Red is the blood
pulsing as I wait.

Fine china
teacup

on broken
saucer.

Much love,
no regrets.

Struck a match.  Watched it burn. The scratch of sulphur intrigued my ears.  The burst of flame dazzled my eyes.

Struck a match.  Once again I watched.  The perfect strike?

Exhausted all the flames.  Searched for more.  My young eyes inspired.

To the woods. A new matchbox.  Pyramids of sticks. Struck a match. Watched it burn.

Still inspired by the fire.

Pure white
paperclip.

Bent outta
shape.

Prepare to
be waste.

There is no
escape.

Sitting upon the mountaintop, watching the wind ripple the
leaves, looking to the uppermost peaks, recognizing snow-capped dreams.

A tin can rattles along the road.  Blown by the lungs of the world.  Hospitals call for the injured.  Sirens ring out.  Screaming so loud.  The wheels spin.  A coffee is spilt.  Across the table it flows.

Science,

a

white

umbrella

with

flickering

flames

and blue

green

names:

she

painted

my

life

insane.

Deep in the fox hole, orange explosions.
A friend in god, we pray and hope.

Enemy within us be free.

We were fighting for survival.

Field hospital. Infection cured;
maggots eat dead flesh.

Deep in the moment:
 
Explosions, gunfire, and screams.

Together in a tigers' tooth, we wish
to transcend our fears.

Hitting the bag hard.  Contracting the muscles. Pushing the limits.  Everyday is a workday in the gym. Boxing is a tough sport and injuries do happen, but the main draw is the test, and the endorphin high.

Outside the ring, time is more fluid.  The clock continues to tick but, for most people, the seconds don't count.

A knockout can arrive in the blink of an eye.  You think you know the ropes, the footwork, the patterns, and then wham!

Like a car-wreck.  One minute you're buzzing down the freeway, listening to tunes on the radio, and kaboom, what the hell???

Instant change, up becomes down, and for some it's down and out!

Twelve rounds, the bell sounds, points are tallied, did you make the grade, did you put in your best?

It's everyday life played out as spectacle. Twelve rounds in the squared circle and then your time has passed.

Silvers spins on an oak table.  
Steven hums Mozart melodies.

"Music is good for the health"

The gamble is taken.
Every coin; two sides.

Today the poor rejoice for
tomorrow the rich will lose.

Silver coins are lost.  Clattering to the sidewalk.  Empty pockets like empty houses.  Homeless in their hearts.

In her hand I ride the tracks. Time stamped with no use-by
date.  An bus ticket torn in two, it's impossible to forget you.

The empty coke bottle spins inside, the apple-pie's half eaten.

Your shoes all scuffed. Your hat still crushed. The wall from which you fell.  The orange peel hidden in your bag.

This picture frame is soon to be trashed.

Water drips. A phone rings.  The baby has arrived.  Tomo calls.  Grab a taxi. The visit is on. Yellow toys bobbing.  Well that's the aim.  Fingers are crossed.  Get your money ready.  It's cold outside. The rain is here.

English tea and scones with cream.  

A cigarette dangles from his lips.  The blonde-haired girl watches as the smoke rises.  Between them a newspaper sits upon the table.  

They have stopped to peruse their purchases:

The Bletchley code-breaker story always enthralls, and John Lennon never grows old.

Smoke rings continue to rise, eventually to fade away .

Overgrown lawn
rusted and green:
Machinery down.

Mystic musician, zero to nine,
dead and buried, never more
alive.

Scents, tastes, visions, sounds.

Surrounded by others; people,
pets, wildlife, flowers.

Trees bearing fruit, and bushes
with berries.

Aware to the abundance of life.

Scratches on paper, images form in black on white, the world created with words.

His scowl, her smile; scar tissue and lipstick.

Next to a crumbling wall upon the green grass they sit. Each holding a pen.  Taking turns, they write. Black on white, line after line.

The black rose and the butterfly.

Sleek lines curve around the mind, stimulating the imagination.  Here and now she faces me, but who is the mirror?

Tumeric stains on fingertips, reminders of the culinary fun.  A half empty glass of Bordeaux upon the monopoly board: oh yeah, another loss.

Ruby-red shoes seek a home. 
A silver spoon is bent in two.

Johnny Cash plays as the record spins.

Some you lose,
some you win!

Yellow blossom, snows fall.
Startled eyes, a rabbit runs.

A heat I could no longer tolerate.  I gulped from the bottle as sweat drenched my brow.  

The lines had been drawn.  Arbitary divisions separating positions.  Journeys were to be undertaken, 'long is the road' was the chant.

Tibetian prayer flags flapped in the winds. Abandoned newspapers whirled as if suspended on strings.

Wake up!

The bottle was empty.  Our time had arrived.  Hearts were beating.  This day was sublime.

Nineteen years of age... yes I remember.  

There was the heat of the jungle and the humidity, but the fear was stronger - each step took its toll.

Some days zipped past like bullets; others dragged like an injured buddy.

Twenty... I prayed to reach.

Rust tipped leaves suspended, the snowblind continues.
Footsteps mark a new path, deviation forges revelation.

Amongst the bamboo flutes a single melody draws me in.
Blues and greens merge, the kingfisher dives from view.

Sun bleaches the remains, fragments, pieces of yesterday.
Blood drips from the dagger's edge - this ritual of rebirth.

Tobacco-stained dreams remain. Tanned like leather, finger joints gnarled.  The sun glints through a crack in the door.  This is a sign of brighter times.  Turquoise blues holds the memory.  

Tainted by gunfire, the repetition of the rounds hitting the ground.  Tactile senses return, feeling the grip against the palm, fingers around the guard.  

Tension becomes the norm.  Tomorrow is hope, every evening brings the tears.  Trees sway as I walk, seeking serenity in the green leaves.

Outside dark clouds form;
inside the storm rages on.

Like a snail the journey is slow.
Two sticks maintain the balance.
Walking on water, floating clouds.

This moment takes me as I regress, seconds tick, slashing rain, eyes green.  Gone like all those yesterdays, physically altered, a puzzle rearranged.  

Alone in the swirl, seeking my center, over my shoulder the world spins on.  Tomorrow where the future lies, my hands washed of pain and regret, a place to seek and forget.  

Green eyes revise.  Another anachronistic statistic rising on a graph, computing the numbers, refusing to stumble, aiming to wander.

Outside I notice
elderberry blue,
inside of a name.

Pebble skims
across a lake:
mine's a boat.

Something drew me to this leatherbound notebook, tattered and torn.  Inside the pages are filled with doodles and colorful phrases. Inspiration comes quick, I grab a pen and begin to underline.

Tears for breakfast. Bodies fade but the memories remain. Stories continue to be heard.  One generation informs the next.

A life admired,
many inspired.

Your words continue to revolve around our minds.  Your stories, your experiences, and proverbs all told with heart.

"Your health is your wealth"

Moving in circles,
a second hand

is ticking...

Time is on a mission

and the watch-strap
is slipping.

Slapped these words like paint on canvas.  Where syntax makes nonsense.  Grabbed in a rorschach hologram.

A whistle blows, time stops, doors slam, stories end.

Like the roulette
wheel & ball,

tell me lies and
my tears fall.

Between the covers of a book I hide.  Becoming the characters I dive in deep.  Landscapes no longer escape me, continents keep me content.  Empathy develops page after page.  Lost in the tales they tell, taking their journey to heart.  Colors entice my eyes, stories stimulate my mind.  The spark of life rekindled. Today I begin again, page 177.

Twisted reality, my art in 3D.  Scratched my words into the sidewalk, painted my soul on a wall.  Conversed with canvas, I'm laced to the high-top.

Sat and watched as the trees swayed,
listened to hear what the leaves say.

The days of rain that bleed on my windows... I trust the weather but not the folks inside. Like a snowglobe I feel shaken, and I wait till the snow has settled.

Kaftan drifts as the dervish whirls.  Footsteps heavily influenced to a standstill.  Hands rubbed together, slowly sticking palm to palm.  To sleep is a prayer offered in hope.  The dream is blank state rarely achieved.  Eyes all drained of color, limbs so tired. The mind keeps on spinning, thought after thought racing for attention.  The clock strikes again.  One thirty am... once more sleep escapes.

Ethereal eyes, seeking wisdom. Robes covering a slight physique.  He makes his way across the room.  Slowly he sits, content within his fragile skin. A single bell rings - meditation begins.

Silhouette, the night is yours.  Whiskers gauge the distance.  Leaves rustle in the breeze.  Sleek and slender you wait.  Stalking your prey.  Green eyes alert.  An emerald shine.  Fight or flight.  The heart beat slows.  A silhouette of the night.