There he sits.
The moon is in the sky,
like clockwork.
His personality changed
from yesterday,
along with his clothes.
Tonight, he's draped in stars
and showing only a quarter
of his wonderful personality.
How humble he can be.
He's playing off the light
of the fireflies
like a violinist from a conductor.
Look at that...he's higher
than the shadow connected trees.
My old friend,
you have a flare for the dramatic.

Natures Lace

All through the night she works, tireless never ceasing
To spin her silken threads
The perfect creation of natures Lace
A silken shimmering web
No hand of man could ever produce such a perfect work of art
With computers and modern technology he wouldn't know where to start
A silken thread floating on air is gathered and put in its place
All this in darkness without pattern or plan
She creates natures beautiful Lace
Each silken strand, stronger than steel
Stronger than anything man can produce
All this from one spider spinning her web
A product of natural juice
With the coming of dawn and a new rising sun
A sight that is sure to amaze
Every tree, every bush, every gatepost
Draped in a gown of gossamer lace

They scatter themselves freely to the breeze
Shaking their heads, rocking with the beat
seeds creep under the roots of nearby trees
tucking themselves into cool soil out of the heat.
The white against the green and orange with blue
I'd never tire of this, even if I was to be asked again
Marigolds and daisies - what a very splendid view
My childhood revisits making the endless daisy chain.
Marigolds remind me of the sunsets we used to see
Oranges splashed over and above the sky
with toes dangling in the cool of the sea
watching the world in my oranges and whites go by.

When we were far
and very young, in a place with no roads to follow
only a winding path, a branch to grasp
a place to fill the hollow

Blue the summer, with drowsy daisies came
petals, petals, we drew circles round the sun
gold spun, our halo heads of pollen
gold the bees of sleepy flowers
amid clover grass heaven

Days we lived deep in hills
we were endless green, in unmapped countries
stretching past the farms afield, in other worlds
too far to see, we lived beyond the gray of days
and we were free, in the shining silver
of our hallowed hills of ever.

Estranged in summer rains'

       landscaped  dissolution

       evincing season's discontent

      neath sun's suffocating alienation;

used to rhyme with warmth

             and effulgent delectation,

   emotional realms fizzled in a

              heated  halfhearted sizzle

            of down-pour's restless manifestations

Outside of poetry
I would still be living a life
lightened and carefree
merrily chatting with wife.

I would let a poem rise in my head
throw to wind and see it dead
return to sky all breath of pain
watch them fall as joyous rain.

I would darken the screen let it sleep
burn the poems with none to keep
retire to the nook not been for long
brush up the web on a dusty song.

To be away from poetry I would strive
sail on the river go on long drive
snuggle tighter to a fathomless space
outside of poetry discover happiness.

The pink places he
kissed on her body
opened up the way
flowers do in the
season of spring.
And the fluids that
came out looked
like morning dew
on the petals before
the sunshine pours
down and dries them
off drop by drop* ~