I've missed you.
But it's not your fault
you secret little ***** of my pain.
My interest never dies
I swear
though time for you
I haven't had to spare
since I've grown happier
with every passing day.
Do not complain.
I'll pick you up again
when my heart bleeds for no one
standing near.
For in an hour
that finds me lonely
I will want your listening ear
'neath my pen,
taking stains
so I don't have to wear them.
You take them,
hold them,
wait for me.
My little book of verses,
I'll return
with tears like kisses.

my self most intimate,
unspoiled,
keeping every scar alive,
albeit cloaked in metaphors
like bandages of silk
that hide the oozing;
my self most raw and
un-defiled,
unguarded,
revealed in phrases
composed to ponder
with your time;
is here in lines of poems
playing like a child in the trees,
like a game of hide and seek
a breeze may help you win.
but to find me
you must read between my lines.

Where is joy?
In that flower.
Can you climb inside with me?
Where is sweetness?
In the nectar,
carried far by bees.
For they know what we don't
that joy and sweetness must be spread
and life doesn't give the right
to hold it all,
all the time.
Don't stop the bees.
They'll come again,
if you wait.

If you stray from where you should've,
no bed when comes the night,
don't suspect your compass wasn't right.
If the needle showed a way
and you followed it to erring
the misfortune of wayfaring;
It may not be the instrument in hand.
The heart is at fault here.
You chose the wrong North, it's clear.

looking past mundane and bore
the isolation such a chore
remember what we do it for~
to not repeat a sickly lore.
the pestilence in days of yore
spared neither emperor or *****.

though we now find common fight
absent kin is not quite right
or lover in the dead of night
too far to hold my body tight.
I ask with no one in my sight
when parts this darkness for the light?

I miss the skin and velvet touch
and loving in our dreamy hutch
but we all know this feeling-such-
to bear it with a hopeful hunch
to greet with kiss and ardent clutch
when time has healed the world that much.

so care for neighbor with a prayer
sing a song and bless the air~
‘tis not so much we can not bear.
observe the quiet for it’s rare.
and finding outside beauty fair
feel happy you’ve the time to spare.

until it comes I inward gaze
and see my soul is still ablaze
with hope for man and better days
amidst this heavily pressing haze.
we shall emerge with better ways
of sharing in the heaven’s rays.

a song growing thin,
a stream of honey nearly gone;
I wait
as the last note forms.
forever it falls
and silence
finds me full
and hungry.
so I dip my finger again
twisting, turning
the golden promise
of another lyric sunrise,
a day in fields of green
where bees and birds and I
roam free.
if silence is the night
between my heart and a song
I pray it hasten.

I smile for a while
observing this new style
of speaking with someone
I recall.
The rocks and hills,
contests of wills
have given way to
waves across a sea.
An ocean of time
forgiving sublime;
you’re you
and I get to be me.
So now my friend,
my brother,
the face I wear is true;
just because I’m me
and you are you.

Poems move in currents
changing speed and
splitting ways,
and we watch.
The rolling faire,
the words they share
leave beauty behind,
ignorant,
understood by one;
intentions only guessed
while images we digest
from origin unknown.
We read, we take,
we contemplate.
But unless traversing upstream,
over boulders,
holding rocks,
growing tired as we near the point of pain
we never see its start.
The water breaks through stone,
alone...
And where,
only the poet knows.

Mike Hauser had a brilliant idea to “Pass the pen” and see where it got us.  This, Friends, is the result.

I write of the stars
I write of the moon
I write of the things
That I love to do
I write of the lies
While telling the truth
And when I am through
I pass the pen to you

I read the things
that went before
and add my thoughts
for you to write more
of things we love
and things we hate
so here's the pen,
now contemplate!

I wait like a kid
the anticipation
breaks my quiet
like a train in station
with thoughts
pouring out
like the traveling weary
so here's the pen
"now what's my hurry?"

While looking at this
And studying that
As our poetic peruse
Comes up to bat
With much more in store
From the writer's’ knack
I jot down my last line
Then pass the pen back

and now it get's fun
with my lines and yours
at least it keeps me
from doing my chores!
fingers be nimble
brain be quick
I finished this part
now here's the Bic.

With words tattered and torn
I have you here to mend
Don’t know where I’m going
Brain lights on dim
With little or no warning
Here it comes again
All on a whim
I hand you the pen

*so who will care
if we make no sense
“these poets here
must have the bends!”
but all the same
we’ve had our yen
it was a good run
let's retire the pen

I am having problems, punctuated!
by punctuation...
What beguiles me most- you ?
Is that in my (mind) is an idea
so screamingly!!! fantastic that
I should be !¡YELLING!¡
but unless the world can C me—-
and they DON'T—-
then it is up to the limits
of punctuation...
(Insert "Punctuation for Dummies")
and the abbr skill
of 1 feeble and weary writer
to pick from the limits
of her keyboard;
stifling the ~~flow~~ of thought
along the way;
to finally impart such an originally
insignificant thought.
Period.

a congregation
of creation,
Aspens gather in;
between the hills
where sunshine fills
the church of the ravine.

triumphantly the hymns
that play
on many golden ray,
light the way
for trees that pray
and touch the Heavens' gate.

a gentle breeze
is not perceived
except on leaves of green,
whose bright colors
quake and nod
moved by a breath of God.

their branches white
bathed in moonlight
reflect a spirit strong,
stood straight these years
through storm and tears
with roots in solid ground.

the Aspen Grove
how I would rove
a childhood of dreams,
my spirit always
spoken to
in company of trees.

To indite or
not
to indite;
there's really
no question.

the smell was thick with sadness
and the sound was full of dung
the corridor of cages
filled with hopeful, empty eyes.
my dog was in there somewhere
waiting to go home,
I just had to find him
and know he was the one.

I almost couldn't make it out
myself.

he came inside the house
and on a blanket lied
not knowing this was permanent
not feeling he was home
not trusting he would be embraced
and never left outside.

he didn't have a name
that he could recognize

the vet declared neglect
but our hearts already knew
the only color in his eyes
was what he never knew

some medicine, a bath and food
began to lift his spirit
but lots of love and gentle hands
gave him ear to hear it;
the love that he could have,
the home where he can live,
and kindness that doesn't leave.
he now belongs.

and so do we.

loving you in seven ways to Sunday;
the ways you tend to meet my wandering mind.
Sophisticate, the world through prism light.
Movement, the uptight and the lithe.
Tenderness, sweet then bitter like wine.
Will, when true love fights.
Trinkets reminiscent.
Forever in cycles.
Soul I know because I see your eyes.
through seven days I know, even if you don't.

Silence the wisher;
it would be true magic
if only I could
when World doesn't bring me
what I think it should
and time doesn't heal
the wounds beneath
the smile I wear
or the song I steal
when it just ain't perfect
and there's stuff to fix
and my wicked little Wisher
is in the mix
and my in the moment
can't stay the tide
of the emotion rising
from memories I hide

Silence the Wisher
and set me free
so the way I appear
is the way I BE.

simple music, simple people
simple food, simple fun.
simple life, simple love,
to my heart you're the one

where is the moment's bidding?
the days spent on the run;
when you and I bridge nightfall
with the golden rays of Sun?

to live in notes and laughter
the wounds of past undone;
this is the breath of living
and I have just begun.

How can I believe
by light of stars,
the things you speak?
I can see it in your eyes
the wine
makes inhibitions weak.

In this light
I'm special.
But this eve I know
that tomorrow
I'll be hidden;
nothing will show.

The faith you see,
the trust you feel
won't hang upon the wall.
By sobriety of sunlight
you'll have
no need to call.

Intoxicate my brain.
But fire in my soul,
is not as high.
When no one
tends the glow
the embers die.

You, master
teach me
what forgetting is.
My back is turned.
I have no need
and nothing to give.

someone who resembles you
but not you.
what the hell?
a stormy heart
a quiet smile
eyes a piercing blue.
I know that I’ll be into him
because I’m into you.
some would say I’m broken.
I know I'm soul stained.
a lonely truth I’m living
that it’s not me,
it’s you.

Sunday.
The coffee knows,
and my toes;
I can't move either.
Sunday.
House is quiet,
after the riot;
it's a breather.
Monday.
Comes too fast,
a weekend passed;
not a pleaser.
Sunday.
Through a week,
your silent break
is just a teaser.
Sunday.
Feelin' lazy;
it's all hazy...

sing me a tune, Band Man
rock me to weep.
take me to heaven
on a song I can keep

my heart has a melody
you seem to find it.
the rhythm surrounds me
and in my soul binds it

rolling and swaying
we feel the same groove;
laughter in unison
as one body move

no time to be weary
on memory wings;
when this bird comes flying
we leave all the things

behind us is worry,
lose anger and fear;
we have only music,
a few happy tears

ride into the moonlight
on serenade of peace;
its waves will hold and thrill us~
may magic never cease.

Shrouded in Liberty
it moves across the land
gorging on the hearts
and faith of
small ones;
they whose homes
invaded by the cause,
depleted of life,
of love,
of choice,
find protection
a misnomer.
Buried deep in details
of little consequence
where minutia
is a governor
stealing choice
to feed the appetite
of this machine.
Where has gone
the mighty power
that once united all;
will Freedom
end this war
before a mighty fall?
Bring back the ghosts
that won it well
the proud, the free and brave;
their spirits needed in our own
to lead us from our grave.
Apathy would bury us,
cloaked in ignorance of bliss
while shrouded in Liberty
the beast deceives;
No army advancing
but what we're sold,
driving back the small ones
step by step;
the edge of a grave
ready for us to slip
into darkness.

Be careful,
Because you...

Catch more flies with honey, bring more bees with flowers.
But you might find a bear or a thorn;
The times that you think it can't be worse
Are when to remember this little verse.
That if you can catch it, capture and keep it
Then love it and know it is yours.
But what comes to bother you surely must leave you
and you'll be alright of course.

May Mother Earth ground you, come what may;
God give you wisdom to send trouble away.

he saw me on a list of gals
and wondering if we might be pals
hit me up for sudden fun.
to his surprise I said I would
and drove to town to make good
on my word I like to dance.
we had a pair of moscow mules
and breaking with the first date rules
he kissed me on the floor.
and here we were with swaying hips
dancing close and pressing lips,
whispering and laughing as we go.
who’s to say what time will tell
if we play our cards quite well
we might do this a lot.

dragon fly with silver wings
see my soul and show me things.
in my heart and to his ear
sentient wisdom of love's nature.

song and wine have been for naught;
I have given all I've got.
a kindly deed and soft caress
the moonlight and the sun confess.

the wind can take you dragon fly
far past the reaches of my eye
to tell me if he thinks of me
in moments of serenity.

if I see your wings again
I shall know I have a friend.
though space and time we can not share
I will understand it, fair.

The heart can be impulsive,
the mind may sway to fear.
A body gets weak and tired,
but the soul, holds wisdom dear.
Be still and find the truth therein
it waits for you to hear.
No magic in the air, for us,
but winds that in-ward steer.

a poem wrote me
almost before I knew.
my hand my mind my pen
just a muse
for sentiment that oozes
like sap from a tree
after Winter harsh and cold
has just released the grip
of icy fingers
melting into Spring.
a poem wrote me
while hungry earth
beneath my feet
waited for the sugar
nourishing seeds
growing the flowers
to prove that life goes on.
my life goes on
because a poem writes me
still.

The Rose

Thorns may be along our path
but only between the roses.
Sunlight falls upon the blooms
white with my surrender.
Succumb I will to walk with Love
finding my soul in yours;
When you choose a rose for me
the gesture is a gift.
For a drop of blood
falls from your finger
and landing on petals soft,
transforms the white to brilliant red.
Our rose will live forever.

when it's all lights
to catch the eyes
but ways to drain my soul;
it isn't worth the gamble
any more.
penniless
without tenderness
you let me
give and give
without a take.
now the chips are down;
and I stranded,
on an empty, dewy street
with faded lights
and hungered heart
wishing I had never banked
on Vegas.
the deal was always
loaded
for the house.

Nothing is fixed;
like stars that
drift the sky by night
as Earth journeys round
in spite of Orion’s might.
The Sun that sets
ne’er regrets a day
on which it shone;
but all that’s grown is grateful
for the heat and it’s rest.
While Earth and heaven shift
the flowers die,
and stars implode.
I shan’t look back with tears
at love I had
and left in change of years.
All the light that shines
from years away
can sometimes find me, still.

I'm in your head with what I've read.
Sorry?  You say I'm not?
If we don't want the attention,
then why write this rot?

The poet is a complex breed;
they "spill it" for the page
but deny the closest knowing,
hiding source of love or rage.

Poetry, a selfish sport
we tease the world with rhymes
then troll the lines of someone else
as if we're owed the cries.

Not for public viewing
except what we control;
we measure just the prettiest
and the rest we hold.

Who really knows a writer
except themselves?
Our deepest, truest secrets
we hold upon our shelves.

By this the world's a poem
we wind together deep;
we ought to open up our hearts
let all the feeling seep.

Time can be squandered, endured,
or enjoyed;
on your side, it is friend,
running out, a foe.

It's all we have to make life
worth living;
more can't be given,
but it's well spent in giving.

You're the one
who knows me through and through
and not at all.
The wind and fire
of all you never hear me say
could sweep me away.
Come in from edge!
The safest spot
is in the eye with me.
Don't be afraid.
The peace is worth it.

The evening is still,
no breeze;
the tress tell me nothing but "Wait."

How long will it be
until I can say
exactly what I want,
and be heard
AND BE HEARD
without a word?

But a walk my way
and time to play
will tell me time has won
finally;

For faith and trust
took over
and anything lost
is nothing anymore.

And if no Us,
it is I
I have found.
And that's enough for both,
I know.

I know.

Sh...
What's that whisper?
You didn't hear it?
No, only me.
It's just my soul
in the dark.

Wait...
Who's behind?
You don't feel that?
No, only me.
Just the ghost
of my shadow.

But wait...
If it speaks
and it walks,
should I be following
ignorance ahead
or the knowing soul behind?

blinded by choice
you mistake me at will
for something ill.
misunderstandings
take two minds
but clarity takes heart.
I do not write on walls,
I carve on sand.
but you the wave
would wipe away the moment
as if my heart
would scar the beach
you have eroded for yourself
and you prefer
to hide the truth
I speak.
where have gone my words?
sank beneath your toil
like whispers in white noise.
we can not hear a gentle breeze
when tide is high.

A butterfly is beautiful until you feel you're sly,
moving close to touch her wings,
and then she may not fly.
But on her feet is magic that makes one flower,
two....
Disturbing the dainty butterfly
Means fewer blooms for you.
Wonder, gently.

writing is a movement
by which my thoughts
are savored;

like the silence of wind
until it rustles the leaves

the words I write
still move me
after the wind has stopped