I used to read your poems
but lately you don't write
you're silent and aloof
you know that isn't right.
You can't close a door once opened
you can't abolish all your dreams
you're a poet of the heart
mustn't fall apart at the seams.
Say what you can in words
they speak the message true
spoken from the heart
the poems will see you through.
A hermit's not your style
a recluse, you are not
never give up writing
of things that you've been taught.
I used to read your poems
I'd read them once again
if you would send them out
(this one's from a poet friend)

I bemoan over the scarcity of many things I seek for,
And with past burdens new woes descended on my shoulder;
I am gone to a watery grave filled with sorrows;
Yet to be experienced and suffer from it deeply.
I sought for affection to quell my rage and ire,
But then I still weep and wail at sorrows bygone;
I am foundering in waves of deep woes,
Unable to fight them back bravely;
I had faith on time with all I have,
And it offered me a life span and ash.

Beneath the Autumn willow tree
Sat a lonely bird.

Once it flew high enough
to curse the heavens

Before it was cast down by
The desert winds.

But now it rests, becoming the wind
as it takes flight

for the last time.

There is perhaps,
a little guilt,
that in the midst of the plague year,
my heart still beats fastest
when you are near.

You know I always love you
In the far-off, savage green ocean
With its slow, loft waves,
It's you my eyes search for

You know I always think of you
In the quiet dark night,
With the mellow moon above
It's you the light I search for

It's you my heart longs for
The reason of my happiness,
The cause of my pain

You knew but never stayed.

There is the ancient story of a shepherd boy
whose king outfitted him with armor
to ready him for the challenges of the day
and the boy could not walk
so he threw off the armor
picked up his sling
and tended his father’s flock
with peace and joy freely erupting in song.

My armor is not wealth or wit
I cannot make myself fit
into the current conventions and hype
trying to conform to the normal type
stops up the energies that yearn to flow
freely and gleefully and urge me to go
to the dawn, darkness, clouds and sun
to wrap myself in words that run
like sparkling streams
and windswept dreams.

Poetry is my armor for each day
where worries and problem allay
where I search my feelings and mind
for the word elixir loosening knots that bind.
This armor does not weigh me down
but frees me to my triggering town
where I find and create the poet me
and the landscape of my soul’s poetry.