I was a fool
before I met you.
I’ll be a fool
until I die.
But all the moves
I made to get to you
are the dances
that kept me alive.

It don’t matter
how we got here.
It don’t matter
where we’re going.
It only matters
what we do now
while we are growing.

The summer showers
are so cleansing,
waves of rain
keep me moving,
shift the sands
and earth beneath me,
and their rhythm
keeps me grooving.

It don’t matter
how we got here.
It don’t matter
where we’re going.
It only matters
what we do now
while we are growing.

I don’t claim
to be an angel,
and I’m too lazy
to be a saint,
but the shame
they tried to
paint me with
didn’t fit
this portrait.

It don’t matter
how we got here.
It don’t matter
where we’re going.
It only matters
what we do now
while we are growing.

I was born
a broken bloom
rising with
the crescent moon,
and I hope I
was a boon
blessed gift
shared with
all of you.

It don’t matter
how we got here.
It don’t matter
where we’re going.
It only matters
what we do now
while we are growing.

I know a troll
who took
a leisurely stroll
with a goblin
and a knoll.

They didn’t
have a planned
place to go,
so, they
just went
with the flow.

Past the pleasant groves
where pixies played
and children
dreamed one day
they would
be able to stay,

beyond the
wood nymphs
adobe,
admiring
those virgins
unclothed,
then stopping
to get know
their cousin
in the river
bed below.

It was
I nice little walk.
Until, they were
stopped,
by an over eager,
righteous believer,
knight errant
on an errand
for his local liege.

He had no need
to give these three
a lick of grief,
but being oh so
brave and noble,
felt untitled
to act with
unbridled
arrogance.

So, the three
traveling hence
returned
from whence
they came,
but the knight
was never heard
from ever again.

It is a breath,
the cold grip
close to it
calling forth
those deathly lips,

stringent
reactions
out of the
desperate actions
made to escape
what waits
for my weary
body.

It is another
inhalation,
the light
high
fractional
exhilaration
of succeeding
in taking
the air
that I am needing
and feeding
my body,

while death
lurks
ever
omnipresent.

Trying something new,
I release
the tense beast
of burden
I was holding onto
as I exhale
and forgive myself.

I play this weird word tournament
with the last scrabble vestments
of my weak will and testaments
wondering if the waterfall
will let me get soaking wet,
cooling this confused form that has been
constantly suffering from a state of
severely deep dehydration,
whilst waiting for some fall confession
to ease the coughing wheezing
springtime cornfield sneezing
antihistamine needing
allergy affliction.

Tuesday morning at Four A.M.
Gramma Smith turns over in bed,
Awake too early once again.
Her replaced hip complains
And a cramp hides behind her knee
And must be stretched and sent away

Fifteen minutes of not finding comfort
Informs her that it’s time to get up.
Legs hanging over the edge of the bed,
She searches the darkness for strength,
Knowing the minute she stands upright
Her back will seize and shriek with pain.

It only lasts a little while
Then settles into a bearable ache
As she shambles to the Loo
Before she can embarrass herself
With leakage she cannot control
The way she could when young.

Dry and on her feet again
She finds the way to her desk,
Blinking in the sudden light
From two lamps that fight each other
To chase away the shadows
That would make it hard to see.

Picking up her favorite pen
She starts to write a verse.
It grows quickly as she settles in
The chair that knows her shape so well,
And ink flows at a satisfying pace
To catch the words that tumble out.

But what she writes is this:

     Where are all the butterflies
     And Humming Birds of my youth.
     Where are the lacy Sweet Peas
     And the taste of lemonade.

     Where has all the music gone
     And groups of words that soar.
     Where are all the Chickadees
     And fleecy clouds at dawn.

She lays her pen aside and sighs.
The glamour that was living, pales
And leaves a morose gray behind.
Her words are serviceable at best,
And all the new ideas are old.
So she gets up and limps away

To where the kitchen still respects her touch,
And french toast is a panacea for her soul.
She searches for the words that would not come
And sips hot cocoa in vain hope
That there will be a reason to go on
And so the gun stays safely in the drawer.
                         ljm

My life is lived in small syllable increments.
little lovely vowels, daring darling delinquents,
that I play each day in this weird word game.

I sit still to feel the thin threads
that I borrowed for the finer verb vestments
that I might wear and share out there
on some sad shady morrow.

But for now, I bow under the wonder of the waterfall
letting the water rid me of the nasty sweat,
and sooth my harsh summer regret
of having achieved nothing notable at all.

It is a lonely god
who counts the ticks
on eternity’s
broken clock,

as time’s terrible
tidal forces
force him on
in a world
where all other
old gods
are long gone.

What a horrible place
where the last
of his race
lay in the waste
of human destruction.

The lone survivor,
late in life light shiner,
bruised body
who tried to
teach humanity.

His shadow sees
as much as he,
yet rests coolly,
while that immortal body
burns with sorrow.

Mushroom clouds
of bitter smoke
that choke the broke
cord of hope,

temperatures rising
as he is realizing
there will be
no great fantasy
or redemption
of humanity,
just a worried wanderer
who walks
on wavy ground
where no
joys are found.

I need a night long nap.
I need two more days of sleep.
I need a little more rest
to bring out the best of me.

My body doesn’t move
like it used to,
except for the jiggly parts
that burst through,
like a mushroom
overflowing
from my jeans.

My minds doesn’t work
like it used to,
all these words
do not flow freely
all these verbs,
they elude me.

I may be acting goofy
but it is because
I am super sleepy,
please give me
at least three more
hours before
I have to be awake.

Dear daughters of Eve,
sweet children who bleed
because god perceived
that he was betrayed
when your sire ate
the fruit we believe seeded
the knowledge that we needed,

and the punishment given
was the ability to conceive
in a woman’s womb,
the greatest boon
from said fertility,

oddly,
something
that a man can
never achieve
despite his raw virility.

So, the punishment
for gaining knowledge
is really a gift on both ends,
cause the fruit of your bodies
is where each successive
generation begins.

Here is a truth
when I do
what I do,
by not reaching out
to the few who
used to care
to stop and share
their time
and stuff,

then why should I
expect
when I get
back to myself
that they
or anyone else
would give
this ghost
any notice
at all?