Mirror mirror on the wall,
Was I always meant to fall?
Roses white, and dying light,
Silver’s sweet forgiving bite,
She'll ask “why?”
No answers found,
And I'll rot deep
Beneath the ground.
For the only kingdom waiting for me,
When I fall to eternal sleep,
Is two feet wide,
And six feet deep.

Three things that should always be strong.
Coffee.
Poetry, and You.

Fire !

so it goes with anger

a ballerina

the forest

or my Catilina when she is jealous

for the moth

it is the gate to eternity

but for the wise moth

the secret to life

is to come back

with singed wings

It's morning, rain has fallen making all the ground darker shade and I'm sweaty,
and, god, I didn't want to be sweaty.
I'm pushing panting up a hill in sixth gear on my six-gear bike because
the gear-shifter has long since broken
as a result of a time I cut too close to a
old-fashioned lamp post,
caught my pedal on it
and went spinning headlong into a rose bush.

The trees are green,
greener than I've ever seen them.
It's morning and the cars shick by, rolling atop the water in the road like Christ did in the early years.
A car slams into a puddle.
When did our lives become so perfectly metaphored in cars?
The a to B life; stopping only when stopped by a glaring light or harsh word; filling up and running out; breaking down only on the road, never in my own garage.

A warm rain will fall this morning.
I hear only the breathy whisper of my breath out my mouth
and engines and tires.
I think nothing, which is a hard-earned comfort
seeing as I, like every person, have a lot to think about,
ever since we invented the automobile; ever since we crucified a sinless man; ever since the moment we thought nothing, and were sent crashing into a rose bush.

This morning it stormed
Lighting flashed, thunder rolled, rain fell...
All gone now

Just a sweet scent of rain in the air
And a steady wind are left to remind me
....such beauty

The birds celebrate with a cacophony of calls
That chase each other through the air
all vying to be heard

The trees dressed in their best
Dance in the breeze to their music
I sit, blessed to watch the show

It hits me, as it so often does
Most especially on days like these
God is such an artist....my favorite in fact

Good dog Max, always sits and waits
for the dogwalker, who comes every day at  8.
Leather leash around his neck, they go round and round the block,
the same route every day. He’s got no shoes and socks
to protect his padded feet, that were meant for grass and hills,
and there’s no chance to run and fetch a bird his master kills
(though that’s what he was bred for).
And from 9 in the morning, until every night,
it’s the same small apartment, floor of wood and walls of white.
Sometimes they lock him in a cage, so he won’t jump on the bed;
Max sometimes wonders if he’s alive, or dead.
He barks when they come home, and they tell him “shush.”
To hide his shame he gnaws a bone, or gives his bowl a push.
Max, depressed and fat, died before his time.
A prisoner locked in solitary who was guilty of no crime.

it's snowing in april and
the bluejays have abandoned their nest to
welcome the newcoming of spring;
we have no furniture, sweetheart,
but we do have time. last night i
held your cheek in my tiny palm and
asked if you wanted me to rest
in your arms forever -
"of course", you soothed,
and i brewed cherry coffee in the morningtime
to remind myself
that this life is good.
we have no money, sweetheart,
but we do have time. we do have time.