On Hands and knees, got stung by a bee
It landed on my wrist,  and then it fled
The sting didn’t hurt at all
In between the pretty leaves of fall
Yet ,Another walk in the park ,
Another sit under the tree
When I found the brother to the bee
It landed on me, and then, it fled
It left its sting inside me
I got back up and walked again
When the sting penetrated and began
Weak in the knees and on my hands
All because of the bee
The children waved tiny hands as the mothers turned their heads
That’s when I started to bleed
The hospital screamed in late night terror
It was all because of my pitiless error
Of walking in the park
Sitting under a tree
And letting my wrist get stung by a bee

A monk sips morning tea,
it's quiet,
    the chrysanthemum's flowering.

Ears in the turrets hear
Hands grumble on the door,
Eyes in the gables see
The fingers at the locks.
Shall I unbolt or stay
Alone till the day I die
Unseen by stranger-eyes
In this white house?
Hands, hold you poison or grapes?

Beyond this island bound
By a thin sea of flesh
And a bone coast,
The land lies out of sound
And the hills out of mind.
No birds or flying fish
Disturbs this island's rest.

Ears in this island hear
The wind pass like a fire,
Eyes in this island see
Ships anchor off the bay.
Shall I run to the ships
With the wind in my hair,
Or stay till the day I die
And welcome no sailor?
Ships, hold you poison or grapes?

Hands grumble on the door,
Ships anchor off the bay,
Rain beats the sand and slates.
Shall I let in the stranger,
Shall I welcome the sailor,
Or stay till the day I die?

Hands of the stranger and holds of the ships,
Hold you poison or grapes?

If I had an inch I'd give you a mile
If you were a frown I'd give you a thousand smiles
I'd give you the world if you asked
But all I want you to have is my heart

I'll write you a song if that's what you want
Then tear it all up if you don't
I'll show you my mind and give you my heart
Just promise you won't rip it apart

I want to know how you are
I want to know your heart and soul
Your voice is a work of art
I wish you could be mine to hold

I never could move on from your eyes
They'd haunt me wherever I go
Quitting isn't always so bad
When giving up on the impossible

Honestly I'd be crazy not to love you
Although the effect seems the same either way
I have dreams of spending forever with you
I wonder if you'd want to stay?

A poem falls short; I'd like, instead
to draw a single line from me to you
and watch it curl into a word
so beautiful it's still unsaid –
or press paper to the window pane
so that the day might saturate
a note that brightly warms your hands,
spills birdsong from imagined trees
and buzzes like fat bumblebees,
but I am bound by language, love; I can't.

Hands shake with a fever to go. Anticipation
                                     and melodramatic resolutions to solve these
                                                                ­          crimes.
Ready for that stage,
         big
           black curtains &
                       last calls.
Climb that rope and fade the limelight. For those hands of
                               impatience
                                          feast
                                              on caffeinated thoughts & the decadence
                                                      of  deliri­um.
Candy coated fortunes bronzed with silly color play-doh.
No one knows
               where they are going,
                             but look at them go!
Tremble with the tension through studied glances.
                                     What says I love you
                                              more than distant by-ways &
                              cornices of ice?
Who will be there when the sun dips to the sea?
               Someone
                         to grab those nervous little hands & bring that old
                               guitar
                                      into tune by
                                           spoon
                                                 tapped melodies.
Prophecies &
            promises but no pay day
                        today.
Clapping hands sound their march. A salute to all those
                     dusty
                          dreams in
                                   locked boxes.