The life of a poet is hard,
People think that they love your work,
But it's not just work,
Its our life.

The flowery fruit fell
into the briny blue
sea froth,
and saw the tides
pull it farther from
the tree on the cliff
that was once
its home.

There it went
recently wind swept
into the red depths
that swelled
and dwelled
on the edge of
some underwater
coral bed.

But there were
little clown fish
that swam by
and nibbled a bit,
there was
soft tangles of seaweed
that occasionally
stalled the trip,
and above there was
a shimmering spectacle
of light bent
but still coming in.

I to
was once
a sweet fruit
born of beauty's
looming sorrow,
not living for today's harvest
but grieving
for the thieving
loss of all
my tomorrows.

Until,
I forgot about the light.
Then all my fears came clear
and consumed my
sea faring soul.

a poet sits in a corner
mind adrift floating some eons away
nether here nor there
but somewhere in between
yesterday and tomorrow and today

a reflection escaped from a mirror
a voice without a mouth
an ocean trapped in a tear
a story told over and over again
in a forest where every tree growing
makes its own sound

death is a mystery woven
into the fabric of life
grief is the thread
to which we use to mend our hearts
tragedy is the sacrificial lamb
to the alter where we will find
our laughter again

and love...

love is a sweater in the lost and found
waiting to be worn by anyone
in need of warmth
knitted from the softest yarn
from the generosity of kindness

love is row of crooked deciduous teeth
in a fresh bright smile
not yet ready to be traded
for quarters and trinkets
all giggles and sugar
in the innocence of youth
the magic of children

love is adrift
a vibration
connecting every heart
from this corner to that drugstore
from the gas station
to the solemn park bench
both here and there
anywhere and everywhere
looped through yesterday
  and tomorrow and today