On her golden hair
A snow butterfly slides down;
My fingers stops it.

In arms of the clouds
The moon sleeps with eyes open;
Some glowworms twinkle.

Without poetry,

Society is an autumn tree

Without sorrows


Who would care of our tears?

Snowflakes

Fall
       At my window


I kiss
         My
              Beloveds

Oh, statue watches;
Time only runs on the road;
A single rose falls

Desmond Tutu died.
Not left behind in Afghanistan.
He didn't drown in a comet induced Tsunami.
The lava flow from la Palma didn't fry him.
Aids, Corona, measles, small-pox or Enola didn't infect him.
World fires didn't **** the oxygen from his lungs.
He didn't dehydrate in the Sahara.
No plane fell on him, nor did he fall out of one.
His size indicates it wasn't a self-imposed hunger strike.

Desmond Tutu just died.

A two year old with his father's handgun didn't do him in.
He wasn't struck down by a falling tree, or speeding car.
I'm sure he fell lots of times, but he always got back up.
He doesn't hang from a cross; he wasn't tossed overboard.
And he wasn't lynched, electrocuted, injected or shot standing.

He died,
Naturally, on St. Stephen's Day, when stoning is popular.

It's a **** good thing he led such an exemplary, meritorious life, or we wouldn't know
Desmond Tutu died.

My eagle


Soared

But

Came down the ground

At sunset

Invisible pins fly
                           Among balloons


None deflates
                           but screeches

I hear tears
             Cry
Like and old leaf
              On the ground

They are snow
          And they live and die in silence

I forgot the present.
I went back,
And watched a flower open yesterday.
Imagination turned real.
There was banter and banging;
Strumming and keying.
I witnessed a chick, hatching,
Breaking through.
After the picking and pecking,
Their scratching and scolding,
I paused in need of help:
Get Out.
No one is that good.