a fire can leave a work of art in its wake
and the fire within your heart can change the world
universal experience of heat from the Sun a shared warmth
and the warmth in your speech can sooth a crying child
a fire can be a beacon on the shore guiding you home
the warning on top a hill to flee or get ready to fight
dance around a fire inspired by its flame giving life
when cold dip your finger in her ashes and body paint.

She came from the land of haunted castles
And the pages of a dead love tale
I would sell my soul to the devil
To give her my last first kiss
But the devil wasn't buying  
He laughed and howled and said
My heart was out of wishes
And my soul was just bad luck
He broke both my thumbs
And stole the moon
And tied a noose to a dying oak tree
And then left me on the road
Without even the stars to read
His parting gift
Was a piece of paper and a pen
And bullet of bad news
And a bit of advice
He suggested to put this dream
Out of my misery

Morning will be here
soon enough says the moon,

only the night knows the truth
that lies dark in your heart

where love sleeps forever,
deep, and never dreaming.

There was a girl
I used to swap paperbacks
and spit with, once
I fixed her wiper blades,
I remember the soft dead wings
on the windshield,  pretty
as you please

She was alone in her shoes
listening to something
that kept getting darker
and glowing like morning
on the oil spilled under her truck,
she was drifting through
the rosewater of her soft red hair

She only wanted to be rolling
off a swollen river, sliding
out of a clean slip, turning
over in a deep sleep, trailing
a shimmering thread, hiding
under a pile of wet leaves

Then there she was sailing
in her river of blood,  going
white and smelling like smoke
from a struck match behind
closed blinds on a ceramic floor,
a white blouse red as a sharp knife
collecting the light of mourning.

I remember the days when we were two stupid kids,
we were eating blackberries grown on tombs
and the moon was just a big stone
the sun was leaving its last breath on.

Now I am looking for you on the Wood street
where you last time smiled at me,
on the Wood street where people eat with their hands
the remains  of those burned by unhappiness,
while fools sing about love and dreams and the holes in their hearts.

I am looking for you
and I don't know whether you are a human or a dream
or the ash
that slips through my frozen fingers.

Maybe you are just the hole in my soul,
maybe the moon is more than a big stone,
maybe I loved you
maybe
you are still there somewhere
in the Sun's last breath.
Maybe it's just your smile
that has burned
covering my soul
my hands.

My brain is a locked door
and I've misplaced the keys.
Nothing will go in and
nothing substantial will come out.
I've knocked and I've rung,
but all to no avail.
The only response is the letterbox
hurling out junk mail
and words I've used before.

time is
the space in which we grow
   without awareness
   in our early years
structured by meals
   arrivals and departures
   light and dark
   hot and cold
   school   studies  play  adventures
   celebrations
and by waiting
   anxiously or not
for things to happen

time is
that feeling
that we may not have enough of it
in our later years
busy with jobs and family and travel
covering long distances in order to
achieve and educate and care

time is
what starts to rush by us
with increasing speed
in our final years
making us wonder
what it really means

that space
by which we measure
our lives
   our universes
      our worlds

time is

A woman came to see me today,
She sat across the desk and handed me
A deed she wanted me to look over.

I didn't recognize the name on the deed at first,
Then slowly it began to dawn on me who she was
I looked up and saw her expectant eyes and a curl at the edge of her lips

God knows what she saw in my face, but she said,
"Hello, Jimmy, it's been a long time".
And it had, probably 30 years ago at my mother's funeral.

Here was my mother's friend, 81 now, old enough to call a
65-year-old man Jimmy and touch the place inside him
Where his mother's memory lives.

But it was more than a visit between old friends.
A friend of mine now gone called such things divine appointments

Because, you see, my mother was in that room as we talked
About our families and the days back when our world was young,
Full of love, and death had never touched me.

When she left I cried…

It's hours later and mom's still here beside me as I write.
I feel her as I have all the terrible times when she protected me,
Mostly from myself, and the blessed times like when I found
My way to a new home and love.

I'll see mom one day where she is waiting
I have missed her so very much,
But today I discovered she never left.

Look around and trust your heart, you'll see what I mean