little purple flower
In a desert of scree
waits for a butterfly

     (me, too)

and
when she left
hemingwey

ernest put the barrel
of a shotgun
in his mouth

big toe
in the trigger ...

line and color
at the tip
of his brush
van gogh
knew her intimately...

ravel
felt her with his heart
and composed
the piano concerto for
the left hand...

and his dead hands
and with his dead hands
still clutching a book of poems by Keats
shelly slept with her
on the sands of Italy...

the wolf and the elk
blood and bone

a savage
animal
she is
when taken
for granted

the night
jumps from
the wall

and...

she walks
8th avenue
in the rain
and snow

beauty always
has her price
(usually 20 and up
depending on
what you want)

across the log
as graceful as a dancer...


rising out of the water
jeans and blue t-shirt
like a weighted blanket

muddied and wet
the girl of the lake
delighting in the fall

the playful eyes
that wild in her smile                               

(I too
knew that smile
intimately
once
and dreams were plentiful
as the songs
that kept me alive

but the wind walks
a singular path
through the tall grass
surrounding lakes

a thief tip-toeing into another day)

my genetic blueprint
is looking bluer today

better make some calls

Does the earth ever
In a fit of feeling fear
That her daughter trees
Will uproot too much too far
From her no child ever leaves

(Memory)

Life is a limbo of crippled dreams
waiting for the fire in them to be ignited
But in solitude they shall remain,
their wings will grow big_bigger
but will never kiss the sky,
For the dream keeper knows not
what they can do

I am a worrier ,one of light
playing with stone and might
   in life's cradle,
in a jungle of emotions with only but my pride to cuddle.
I strike with my halo,
to darkness saying hello.

    Have never give'n to the   'bliss' he bestows on seekers,
but the feeling is no longer as good.
My heart whispers the secret garden to my my mind,
and I wonder what's like to give in to the temptation.