.
”If you are to love,
love freely and unburdened
by the tombstones
of past miscalculated regrets.”

But the heart
inadvertently beats
to the mismatched rhythms
of a hundred
caged doves’ wings.

To be a poet
Is not to burn the paper with your words
but to be heard
when drifting smoke of love and life is gone
the poet in us carries on
when ink and page and pen are embers
it is the beauty one remembers

You will not halt the rushing wind
restless seas will turn their tides no matter what you do
rain will fall & wet the land to make it green
leaves will drop at turn of year
you can stop a ticking clock
but you cannot stop time

Furrow face, deep ruts
savage cuts that only time and years can plough
fertile grain
once waving yellow in your fields
does not remain
chaff blown brittle on the winter wind
will settle now and then on barren land
sadly turned to sand

Petrified people
are often alone
they build themselves a heart of stone
it stops the hurt getting in
and the love getting out

Poppies after rain
Waving scarlet petticoats
A garden can-can