Behind the window where raindrops rest
there lies a world dying
under the red sky
a world where the half moon
still looks for its temporary sun,
a world where hope buries people alive
while silver birds are flying
to another sunrise.
behind the window where stars cry
lies my soul
still looking for you
under the dark clouds
of a room
with a dying light.

A storm is brewing in the east
and a white bird is flying high,
like the shadow of smoke
from the last fires in the moonlight,
lying crossways over the bed
on her belly in dark *******,
whatever she is dreaming
its meaning she keeps to herself.

Sending chills this tortured spine,
as aches precede the worded fiction
Sorted truth does rest sublime
beneath the light of benediction
Broken dreams of compass flair,
directions cast a blinded waning
Trusted roots abridge the square
of all that’s lost and is remaining

Washed along this fertile beach
of sanded hope and history
Tasting o’ thy patterned speech
as common phrases come to me
Desolate my cornered mind
of images I pray be true
Dangling the lost to find
retaliation in my view

Pray, oh be, as life does rattle
chains of only mist to turn
Laughter like some long fought battle,
in amongst we tend to learn
When the calling comes so random,
names are lost on open seas
One by one in columned tandem,
drenched of hell’s insanities

Take me to thy deepest haven,
so that I may find the end
Black as night o’ windswept raven,
come to me now once again
Razored claw and broken arrows,
filled with such, the violence
Playing through the endless narrows,
falling to my own expense

This, a life that's not worth living,
not this day, not anymore
Breaths so tethered in their giving,
pull the drapes and close the door
Take a seat your exits' waiting,
frozen hinges squeak in time
Find the map for navigating,
somehow through this wicked rhyme

Follow me, I know the heading,
down this staircase, up the hall
End those futile tears you're shedding,
she's not waiting for your call
Through this doorway stenciled broken,
toss your heart there on the floor
It is but a useless token,
you'll not need it anymore

You’re now privy to the meaning,
whether you do understand
Motioned light, this night is leaning,
let it take you by the hand
Now of time and missing portal,
through the lens of sights unknown
Nothing whispers you are mortal,
for this day you have been shown

Too soon this wind will blow the wet away,
but now the air is sixty, humid, soft.
Leaves everywhere: both sky and puddle flecked
with yellow - oak and ash and willow. They
exhale again - feel frisky - want to play:
forget the furnace summer; dance and float.
The trees sway, branches wave - not bare, green yet
in places, but more red or brown each day.

Is nothing sweeter than a rain washed sky?
Gray cloud shreds race, leave space for fields of blue.
My flannel shirt is muted, multi-hued:
I'm camouflaged! I am no longer I:
I'm this: this wind, this rain, these dancing leaves,
this earth, this sky. I'm open: I receive.

I repaint the Sistine Chapel with only my tongue
just to see your face again.
Oh, your holy chocolate covered soul,
holy bird bone finger tips.
How you snap like a star and then burn again.

Secrets can be silent.
But most often they are whispered
Surrounded by cup-shaped palms
Transported from trembling mouth
To eager ears

Sometimes they are muttered
Throughout staggering sleep
Unbeknownst to the speaker,
Sounded out by partly incoherent coos
And deciphered by insomniacs

Sometimes they are slurred
by drunken tongues and spilled
Like a pint across the bar.
The glass shatters on the floor.
Left dangerously displayed
Until swept up and forgotten in the morning

Sometimes they are written
Soberly on a stark page
The ink courses through your veins
The pen carves the way


And you’re here.
©

Somewhere buried deep beneath your family albums,
Mother’s Day cards, embroidered pillow cases,
Canadian coins and high school yearbooks
there is a  hidden picture of you and  me
under the  limbs of a flowering Catalpa
tree.  It only sees light on uncommon
days when you are alone.