Short showers
of warm
summer storms,

red flowers
painted on
gray sidewalk,

pastels that melt
and run away
in thin crimson
streams,

ivory keys,
soft melodies
growing
and flowing
slowly,

see me safely
to dreams
that elevate me.

A spark
unspoken,
heart reserved
burns for at token
it has not yet earned.

The dove
dirtied
by the dust
starts at the sound
of us,
and goes
shooting up.

Freedom
is the fiercest passion
unfettered by reason,
it is to live
in reactions.

I touch her skin.
My fingers gently move
across her curving collarbone.
With impassioned wit
I extoll
the virtues of
unrestrained lust.

Our thoughts burn bright
pushing us on
towards a scorching light
of devious delights.
It incites chaos
bringing destruction in its wake.

Though happiness reigns
for years and days
others feel a deep pain,
feel betrayed
or grieve the loss
of those they loved
who ran off.

He stumbles in last
with a black
cartoon cat
who is
pawing playfully at
Betty Boop's
big bouncing *****
while she tells him
to stop that.

Sitting somewhere to the side
a well centered sailor man,
Popeye pops a can,
so he can be
a stronger man.

The loony toons
sing merry melodies
while Hannah Barbara buddies
get groovy
with their sixties
styles.

In the rear
Disney friends
go on perpetuating
fake fairytale ends.

Tonight is today.
Summer rays
send us into
heated shudders
as sweaty men
hobble back in
like little children
to their air conditioned
living room.

It is a world
of heart rending horrors,
deep and penetrating shadows
that consume all I know.

But today
I speak of
soft strands
of blonde hair,
of eyes enlarged
by spectacles,
and a smile
with a beautiful voice.

It is a city of sorrows
where strangers sleep
on the steps
of stone churches,
and homeless men
keep arguing
over who’s
street corner
this is.

But today is
like Christmas,
cause she
was on my wish list,
wonderful conversationalist,
might never be
my girlfriend,
but I am currently enjoying
this small moment.

Despite
the spite
that fools spew,
today is beautiful
thanks to one individual.

He doesn’t stay late
after school
to hang out
or try to be cool.

Instead, he pushes the pedals
faster than the others.
His heavy bag
pulls him back
and to the right
as he rides
through his route
finishing up
before daylight
descends
and the night sky
beckons him
to peaceful reflections.

Slight streaks of
black ink
stains his hands
and if it rains
the newspapers
are wrapped
in orange
plastic bags.

Newspapers slung
seldom miss
the points
he intends to hit,
merely brush by
the sentinel bushes
that guard his
patron’s porches.

Nostalgia,
is a swift serpent
that brings tears in.

Purple pleasures
poisonous pain,
nature’s perfect
colored flowers
hover
near our hearts.

I was not winter ready
but weary and worn,
sights set meant to carry
this heavy burden
that I have born,
the season slowly
finds its demise,
and green things
find their roots
and start to rise.

Spring is on its
mating high,
buzzing with
all that nature loving.
Until the heat becomes
too much
and pulsing passions
push to pains
of heated lust.

Summer strikes
quicker then
a ninja’s throwing star
or some other
adolescent fantasy metaphor,
aggressive expansion
of heated frustrations
scolding the core
of the southern
parts of our nations.
Till the lights recede.

Then I fall
like orange
autumnal leaves
coming back
so close
to those bitter cold
beginnings,
sleeves extend
with their own
warming intent
and sweat stains
no longer plague
my once
wet and darkened pits.

Then the frosty fear
returns here
and
I must write
a new winter poem.

A flurry of fuzzy
flowers float in
a hot summer winds.

Her iris is absorbed in an
elegant explosion,
a big bang
of hazel glory
that expands from
the center of
her ocular universe.

The practical pianist
played for perfection’s sake
not for pleasure
and that
was her mistake.