i speak in whispers of
New American Tragedy:
id seeking ego, beyond
means and dreams.

A spirit as big as the
Western plains, as lofty
as distant clouds gathering,
as crushed as the valleys
and fjords carved by
glaciers ancient and cruel.

Samhain is passed, now in
November we must look
to the solstice, for there
is seemingly little to
praise.  Entropy approaches,
brushing our hair
with tender fingers,

       piano

gently exhaling nothings
in earshot,

       piano
       dolce, dolce
       unghia sul ponticello

easing its canines into jugulars,

       per amore
       per amor nostro
       ci ama treppo per essere solo

laughing.

i sing a song of the cooing dove
that orbits in blue skies above;
biding time and waiting,
seeking wings of love.

i sing a song of waters still,
teeming underneath;
of predators that seek out fish
until they've had their fill.

i sing a song of swaying grass
on African savannahs;
that weather through nature's cruel
and bend as the winds pass.

i sing a song of songs to sing,
aloud, accompanied;
for one appreciates alone,
but two enjoy a thing.

i remember vaguely those times,
when solitary leaves drifted
downward, greenish earth tone
children, laughing as they twisted
and curled through the air,
touching nothing and touched by nothing
until finally resting on the floor of
the forest, together at last, forming
loose beds of disbelief only to
lie in stupor for being at the bottom
and not on high where they began.

The wind saves some of them from
their true demise, rustling many
and moving a few back up again
to freedom.  Those chosen few become
the one, traveling together upward
in natural harmony as the lovebirds
of flora that forsake all  but the other.
Such simplistic beauty brings tears to
the eyes to know that it began
with such sadness.

To all the women i
have loved before:
you are welcome.

For me leaving, i mean.

Some of you got what you wanted.
Some of you did not.

None of us got what we bargained for.
Who ever does these days?

To all the women i
have yet to love:
don't crowd.

There is enough of me to disappoint you all.

One at a time or all at once.
It makes no difference to me.

Lavender tea
Reminds me
Of you
And the time
We ran
Through
A forest
And rolled around
In a meadow
Until
The stars
Broke the silence
Of the night

Lavender tea
Reminds me
Of your eyes
They are green
Your eyes bring me peace
I imagine your sweet
Swimming
Green eyes
I always seem to sink
Deep
Into your sea-green ocean

Lavender tea
Reminds me of you
All those chilly Autumn nights
When we would lay
Outside
Humming along
To our lavender song
A calming memory

We stare at the same stars
Every time
I can feel your bodies heat
Warming up mine

Lavender tea
Reminds me
Of the memories
We keep and will keep
Lying deep
Within our eyes
And thoughtfully
Staring at the stars.

There is never enough time:
     To forecast the turning of the seasons,
     stave off the influx of movement
     or the trickling of the mountain
     springs over the backs of the
     spawning masses.

There is never the right time:
     To saturate the grass with
     the musings of subtle
     fantasy lore about the
     splendor present in the
     pause of the moon cycle
     or the coming of dawn.

(the caterpillars have returned,
ushering the day when
the salt will rise from
the seas and shake the
apples down to the ground,
for harvest has finally arrived...)