What if love was contagious
Like some sort of disease
Affecting all religions and races
Bringing the world to its knees

Where a cure is never found
Where no one even tries
A disease that for years sticks around
Contaminating all of mankind

From a kind word being said
To a hug when it's needed the most
In hopes it quickly spreads
With everyone being the host

What if love was a disease
And it was highly contagious
No need to put us all in quarantine
Because love is a disease that would save us

What if you were given a YEAR to live
What changes would you make
Would it change your attitude
On what you do and say

Would you now give to others
Or sit in your world and fret
Over all the things you didn't do
And all the things you did

What if you were given a MONTH to live
That really isn't much time
To do the things that you need to do
To say all your goodbyes

Would you live each day to the fullest
Try and bring about a change
Would you pack up your bags for storage
Or give them all away

What if you were given a DAY to live
Would you view it differently
Feel a crispness to the air
That before you didn't see

Would you find yourself soul searching
For a God you used to not believe
And would you do it desperately
Weeping down upon your knees

What if you were given an HOUR to live
Could you make do with it
Would you stand in the wings idly
And watch the seconds tick

Would you tell all those around
To take life for Christ and live
And that no matter the time
To not give up and quit

Your down to your last minute
I hope you've spent it wise
Now all for you that's left to do
Is lay down and close your eyes

I moved a few years ago
To the upper state of Vermont
Although the place is beautiful
At times it can be one great big yawn

That's when we put our heads together
Me and my best friend Shawn
And came up with the great idea
To start a Hippie Farm

Our noggins were a knocking
Not sure how this could be done
Do Hippies come from packs of seeds
Or like flowers, in a bunch

And can you start them off by grafting
Like they do on Apple Farms
Where you get rows and rows of Hippies
From just a single one

That's when Shawn remembered this mail order magazine
That we took out and took a look inside
It came with an assortment of Hippies
From Raw to Roasted to Highly Deep Fried

So we sat and weighed all of our options
And ordered a bushel of Hippies alive
Then we set out cultivating the fields
Till the day our Hippies arrived

The package  arrived a few days later
In an old beat up VW Bus
With psychedelic smoke pouring from the windows
Pretty sure they all came buzzed

Of course Hippies don't come with instructions
Only bell bottom jeans and old Jefferson Airplane tapes
Can't tell you how many Hippies we went through
Before we learned from our mistakes

Like don't plant a Hippie face first in the dirt
They need a bit of air to breath
And they don't like to be over watered
Just dust them off when you feel the need

Now that the farm is up and running
We seem to have come into our own
We've even come up with  a way of branding
Some of the Hippies that we've grown

We started selling them in flavors
Like Ben and Jerry's down the street
From our Abbie Hoffman Radical Cherry
To our Hendrix Hazy Purple Berry Treat

But it's our Groovy Rainbow Roundup Hippie
Whose sales have never let us down
In fact I'd put that Hippie up against
Anybody else's Hippie in town

I've never been much of one to brag
But we're known on the East coast, up and down
We've had people as far away as Florida
Come and buy our Hippies by the pound

So next time your up in Vermont
Stop in and take a tour and watch us grow
Don't forget to stop by our gift shop
And purchase your very own Hippie to take home

she loves to dance in bedlam
to the beat the shadows throw
in a gown of sequin macabre
since her mind left home

where webs of  deceit hang from chandlers
and madness is the party game
blowing the horns of something's wrong
in an eerie game of charades

the cook that's in her kitchen
bakes a don't dare go there souffle
though she dips her fingers in it
through out her darken days

you may take the chance in joining her in dance
on this the razors edge
when all is said and the day has bled
she pulls the sheets of madness up on her bed

Bittersweet is the moon that dips below it's fate
Sinking into itself behind the horizon of the lake
Radiance of the sun shines momentarily on it's face
To light up the dark of it's visage, then it falls away

after five years
when I write her a love poem,
she is always surprised,
her unexpectation
so very pleases me.

after five years
when I write her a love poem,
I am always surprised,
that a new way to say it,
uncovered.

but this I can tell you,
not once
do I ever write
nor will I ever pen
those I love you words.

they are too easy, too cheap,
a dime a dozen,
naked words make me weep,
dress 'em, cloak 'em, try to
Pradip 'em in
mystery, charming humor,
use conjuring spells of
Bala imagery unreal,
Bzynga!

work hard to tell her why,
work hard to guard your originality,
work hard to tell her in ways
that her into me
smiling, crying, punching.

so I write love poems,
every now and then,
special ways recalled,
teasing her about her forgetfulness,
about her teasing me with rhyming
that is less than spectacular,
how my body has
reshaped itself to fit her.

tell her
I love you,
plain,
well that be downright,

pffft.
(an interjection used to express or indicate
a dying or fizzling out)

the key is to tell her
in a fashion original,
personal to us.

that what all these endless
love poems here strive,
but too oft, fail to arrive.
all tricked up, too direct,
passion burnt used up
after but a single read

stroke her cheek
with soft stanzas,
torrential directness,
no subtly,
fizzles.

write for the long haul,
words that five years hence,
words that five hundred years hence,
make her into me
smiling, crying, punching,
like the first time
she read them,
like they did
five years ago.

Sometimes there’s this emptiness in the soul
With which the saddest songs would not heal
And the soft kisses of tissues would not soothe
The burns of the acidic tears
Something in there
Cannot be resurrected
Nor stimulated  
With a thousand voltage defibrillator

Most of the time,
the rotting flesh is still alive
The heart still beats
The EKG device monitoring
Each stubborn peak and trough

Sometimes
In this blind bleakness,
There is still a small spark
An iridescent bubble that refuses to be burst
And with quiet determination,
There is a defiance to live
And sometimes
This small act of defiance
Is the greatest courage of all