The silent teardrops on the
White, taut skin.
The rush of color to the
Face, the reds, the blacks.
A silhouette appears from the
Deliberate motions of the
Hand. So soft those silent
Teardrops on the face.

That ghost of love past
has come to me
most unexpectedly, and
I, who thought the world
predictable, have found
that I know less of future
pleasures than past pains.
So beautiful a ghost that
fears have left my heart
like demons from Pandora's
crate.

Demons,
do not dare return to me
for you will find no place
in this now joyous soul.
Demons,
do not dare return,
for beauty has now filled
the unimagined spaces of my
mind and drawn me blind.

The screams from
trenches and deafening
blows of mental
bombs attack all
attention, such conflicts

The wolfish face
laps water from the
laughing creek.
A snap
and off go
the feet through
the giant redwood
trees
up the stone, down the moss

The droning sound
That drains the system.
That tiger hides
In prowl amongst the foliage
Of my mind and dances
In the dreams of such
Arousing lucidity.
Oh, how those dreams
Invade the senses in
The room of droning sound
drowning all
thought, drowning
all

Nature is one great lover
from whose soft
and tender kisses on the senses
inspiration comes.

How enticing
the scent of woman,
that often quite forbidden fruit.

----------0----------

That morning smelt of ***
and its dew
trickled thinly down my throat.

----------0----------

The silence filled the air,
and drowsy,
I listened to that lullaby.

----------0----------

Noise in the form of jazz.
Beneath my boot
the crunch of dry mud memories.

All around the sound
So satisfying of those
Simple trickles of the tongue.
Tumultuous rhythms
That track their
Path along my peaceful mind,
Merit the mystic in the silence