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

In my mind a record spins.  Always on repeat.  Your lyrics are kaleidoscopic. Twisted images merge.  Mirror, mirror upon the wall, please awaken me before I fall.

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"

Bottle uncorked
words floating
lost in the waves.

No face but my own,
a mirror still reflects.

Upon the table:
a green crunch.

Before the dawn, that was how it began.  Trumpets sounded and my name was called.  Henceforth you shall become a story worth sharing.  She smiled immediately.  Her curves were the seasons. Images of a valentines heart and Cupid's arrow.  We danced upon the fresh grass.

Eventually cloud obscured our vision - to return, renewed, to remain consumed, grateful for the gift of life.

Outside dark clouds form;
inside the storm rages on.

The music plays, tones rise and fall, emotions follow.

Here within the ear I hear,
as thought becomes sound.

To become the rhythm, I concentrate as the river flows beneath my feet.  Blue is the spirit as I view the stars, painting silver lines upon my palms.

Emotions rise and fall, and the music plays on.

Broken winged
those blue eyes
diving down.

Scents, tastes, visions, sounds.

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

Trees bearing fruit, and bushes
with berries.

Aware to the abundance of life.

Her feet touch the earth,

growing like the grass.

Torn in two, stripped to the bone, head's rewired, thoughts removed.

Your flex in a reflex, reactions to action, she preached in the precinct whilst craving creation.

A submariner survives in daytight compartments, his thoughts become deeper, she prays for his relief.

Hermetically altered the gold-dust is spinkled, as the fish keep on swimming blue in the reef.

Broken down, and beaten... this egg's cracked in two.  Reborn in an instant, cappuccino's still new.

Across the ocean with invisible lines.  Tracking yesterday's dreams.  Upon her waves I float.  My eyes meet the clouds.  Calling out for land.  Sunshine, sand, and pebbles.  Another person to caress.  Drifting through lonely days.  These lines entangle me.

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.

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.

You take aim
and paint.

Youth slips into old age.

Golf swings in the ballroom.

Green is the growth,
majesty is movement.

Blind to the plastic:
old beauty fades

White clouds part, the canvas turn dark, inside these thoughts still gleam, seeking out the stars.

Yellow sun
for you my
eyes burn.

Forgotten like a broken teacup,

London bridge on a windy day.

Heartfelt are the rains that fall.

I am a broken window,
lit by the beam of the
moon.

Night after night I cry,
for tomorrow is the
end of time.

Her melody  
rides the
breeze.

Square boxed boy, green legged girl,
watching the world turning around.

Helicopter pads float upon the pond,
one is a Venus flytrap lost in thought.

In darkness I listen as
the moon is shrouded.

This morning passes
as clouds come and go

I watch the washing
machine as it spins

listening to rumbles
from the sky

the table is cluttered,
with newspaper print

four legs in contact with
the kitchen floor

Cultured, wandering, lost to finding, standing, waiting, hurting, hiding:

Forget the past
seek the dream.

A one-sided coin,

alone I spin.

Coriander mixed alone,
a yellow-footed woman
smiles with raindrops.

Melting down, crossing barriers, breaking out, stepping round.

Pieces fragmenting, character isolating.  Green-acid, hair follicles, white is the blank slate, painting blues with reds.

Freaks from a sideshow, muscles in the sea, six-packs in a grog-shop, dancing improperly.

Beguiled by your bounce, sleep-walking this town.  Fine is the white wine, poisoning the liver, spining on a sixpence, ******* follows dinner.

A broken hinge rests alone as freedom ripples in the wind. She stands tall beside the red tricycle, fenced in white and rusted green.  

Snapshots fire sepia-toned memories.  Farther down the road, where the crossroads hit the stop sign...  phones lines cross the skies.

Walk the old road:  
ancient ways heal
your pain.

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.

A quarter moon
she shines.

Relaxed, beside
the lines.

A lantern marks
the night.

In the iris of the night
we search.

Light beckons us forth.

Deeply held, secrets we
find...

stars sparkle into view.

Sure no more, indeed these days are long.  At risk with the asterik, my smile sinks.  The bulb buzzes beside my bedside, a dim light I see. Playing cards are strewn across my sheets, a black bic pen awaits accord. As the words rest, the mind sleeps, dark is the night.

You smile for nothing in particular... the truth is unknown, a flipside moment when all is lost.  Triumph hides in the shadow, in order to see the light you must first leave the dark.

My finger paints
a clear reflection.

Underneath the red
moon, a fire still burns.

The flames rise,
sending smoke
signals.

Tonight I erase
these ink-filled
pages.

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