wake, my love
fear not for it is I
to be with mine entwined passion
on earth in heaven
let us pose
in this brief instant
on the pedestal
of Eden's gate and peer
into creation
forever and ever
the pearlescence
the shimmering future
a hand held a gaze
a passion unlike any
ever made
for such a day
I fight the clouds  the skies black
away
I mount the steed white chase all evil
from our bounty
our pure love
like crystals flowing from the tallest mount
our destiny our creed
I cry
out loud!

Poems are the MRI's of the soul .

ten decibels below the wind
causing the wings of a crow
to lift and soar above the pine tips
silently swaying on top of the mountain peak
in January in a snowstorm
in beautiful sunshine on a cold
breezy day I sat and just listened
warm as ever I have been
consoled by
all the beauty of
it

Mom doesn’t like poetry
since it’s not clear like how things should be.
Until you write her one,
and beaming she’ll put it on the fridge with a magnet.
Mom likes things sorted and clean, papers off
the table or in the bin, dishes in the sink or the cupboard.
What is this? Why is this here?
If it’s clutter, it’s just stuff. Don’t save it.
In her room she has 37 years of photos
and sometimes tears up when she thinks of her parents
but she would never admit it.
So, she laughs and means it
when her grandchildren dump the box of toys across the living room
and the dogs slide down the hall past the family photos
and bang open doors after a bouncing ball.
Most of the lines on her face come from laughing, crows’ feet dotting her crinkling eyes.
Her birdcall laugh hangs high above any room
like a day-warbler or a hooting night-owl over the treetops.
So much of her is rocks and earth and order,
but every bit of her speaks of beating wings and blue skies.
Mom’s favorite color is blue, deep like the ocean, bright like the sky.
Don’t tell her blue’s a sad color;
she dressed her baby boy in the ocean and then his sister
when she could fit his hand-me-downs,
and then laughed when the disapproving daycare lady sent her daughter home in pink.
She lives with her husband of 36 years in a light blue house
and relished painting skies on her kitchen and living room walls
after 10 years of white and little time
and laughed again when her children protested at the blue walls, rugs, and curtains.
Time may pass,
and the blue curtains, rugs, and walls may have disappeared
and her children may have had children,
but blue is still her favorite color and her children are still her children,
and she still doesn’t like poetry.

We're making plans... like:
Orange juice before guitar.

We're taking Advil PM
In hopes we may sleep tonight.

We're advancing on the age
Of splendor.

We're a technicolor dream coat dancing on strings.
God's the vendor.

Beethoven's not dead.
We hear him at the throat.

We sing like we were given no option
Fluttering around every note.

Then we collapse upon them
In the spirit of victory.

And we light a cigar
Or a cigarette.
King me.