For a million light years, a bloom in space,
a star collapsed,died and scattered,
a petal fell in to inter galactic swirl,
it floated or continued to fall, who can tell?
Light years, like waves after waves caressed it,

eternity took it in to it's cradle and swung,
and it's now the earth,that rides
the waves of gravity, magnetic pulls and the rest,
I am it's part, wandering permanence,
without the remembrance of it's past avatars,
the essence of what is nothingness,
changing forms,I reappear, go back
trapped in a bubble,which after the mission
goes back to the eternal as consciousness.

                                        so, why grieve,
get agitated, or feel elated at times?
Keep the equilibrium and exude love, star-like,
this is what the cosmic hum signifies,
in tunes familiar or seems altogether new.

Icy blue skies' glance
slices through the ends of earth;
winter's beginning.

They don't speak, all the long,
winding bus journey.  They are
strangers, with nothing in common
besides the No 50 route
and the free travel passes
afforded to them on account
of their quietly advancing years.
She sits in the seat in front of him.
Their eyes never lock.  His myopic
gaze through thick NHS lenses
rests neutral on the back of her head,
her softly blue-rinsed curls and the collar
of an eminently sensible overcoat.
They sit, both silent, as
- outside the foggy bus windows -
winter has one last chew on
time's bony old carcass.
She has a slight stoop which
she's doing her best to hide, and his
shaking hands make his liver spots blur.
They stand - the bus stopping at their
mutual destination - shuffling sideways
into the aisle, and something
unexpected
happens.
The bus jolts suddenly forwards,
then lurches to a startled halt,
and she falls backwards
into his arms
and he
catches her.
For a second,
strange gravities assume control.
There's a moment,
governed by different laws of
physics and chemistry
and half-forgotten, half-remembered biology.
She flushes, infused with something
warm and thirst-whettingly girlish, and he
surges with a newfound potency,
standing taller, the woman he's supporting
somehow lessening the burden of his age.
Her spine straightens, and
she laughs.  His face, smiling, youthens.
His hands hold her unstooped shoulders and
don't tremble.
Sun breaks through cloud outside the window.
They remember it's spring out there somewhere.

When the clouds below turn to into carpet
Up there in the cold morning light,
The VFR pilot jitters and frets:

Time to check fuel, to come up with a plan
To search for a hole in the billow below,
And bring the craft in to land.

So it was when a pilot coming back from a lark,
Flew in a circle somewhere over Williston,
Above clouds turning thicker and dark.

In his office sat Phil, across the state line,
When the radio crackled, pleading a break:
"VFR practice," he thought, "He's probably fine."

Phil headed to lunch, had an errand to do...
Drove downtown for a couple of hours,
Returning somewhere around 2:00.

The radio tone carried tired despair
When Phil walked back in from his break
And heard the pilot, still stuck in the air.

Phil knew that the fuel must be drained
In the old Piper Cub overhead,
So he logged a flight plan and ran for his plane.

He flew to the east and banked to the north,
Rising above the gray carpet below,
And spotted the wanderer holding its course.

Coming in fast, cutting his distance by half,
"Super Cub over Williston, this is Bonanza
On your left. How much fuel do you have?"

"About 30 minutes," came a despondent reply,
Standard answer, but gauging the hours,
Phil calculated the response was a lie.

"I am going to fly by your side.
Follow me and dive when I dive;
Keep contact and enjoy the ride."

The planes in tandem turned around;
Phil flew by IFR to find the runway end,
Backed off the throttle, and led them down.

The tail dragger followed, did not complain,
Dropped into the soup gliding blind
Except for the strobe on the faster plane.

The old Cub flared when Phil said, "Land!"
Settled onto the runway end as the propeller stalled,
And Phil had saved a desperate man.

On the hangar wall now hangs a plaque,
Though Phil himself is gone,
The Governor's gift for bringing a flyer back.

--------------
My brother once watched Phil Petrik of Sidney Aviation fly off the Sidney runway, disappearing into a pea soup fog, carrying our father and mother on an emergency flight to Billings, to save my father's life.

I lay this poetic rose upon Phil's grave as a slim tribute to a man who earned my admiration and life long gratitude. Rest In Peace, Phil Petrik.

Your gracious Light extends
You have Healed my brokenness
On You I can depend
You touched my pain with Loving Hands
Anointing hurts and woes
It's like a warm embrace and kiss
And Love that OVERFLOWS!
Thank you for what You have done
The Healing You have wrought
This kind of Restoration
Can't be obtained or bought
I need no Hydrocodone
I have no need for pills
I have my Balm of Gilead

And I ALWAYS WILL!


SoulSurvivor
(c) 3/10/2016

today a dark 
sky is
   wrapping
itself around
my town,
squeezing
    all that
surrounds
in its strong
muscular
   hands, one
solitary crow
    manages
to slip free,
flies over
highways,
      streets
& trees,
I watch it
enviously as
it disappears
thinking
what I
would do
      for a pair
    of wings

I have known the snap of the cold,
I have lay, bitten by frost.
Shivering limbs, fold and unfold,
I have fought the fight and lost.

I have limped down a solitary street,
Fingers too numb to count the cost,
The only noise, my stamping feet.
I judge time by the moons height,

The hours, until Dawn brings heat.
I have used the shadows at night,
To hide from eyes, over-bold,
I do not wish to share my plight,

Swaddled in newspapers, my story untold,
It is a dish , best served . . .cold.

To my friend
Bill Hughes
Who just lost his kitten

Hope that lonesomeness
Gets back in its cube
With all the other itches.

To my friend
Billy Hughes
Dear rhymester of hellopoetry
And SoundCloud.

If you need a Bud
I'm here with love
I can be your cat for a day
And speak to you as a friend.
Long live your black cat.
He's eating mice by heavens dozen,
His life has just started
It didint end.

I thought that if I took my writers block
And cut it into pieces
I could build a wall
And, being higher
I would see the Eastern Dawn sooner

That way I would have a leg-up
so to speak
on all the other writers and poets
and gain an advantage.

My words would be brighter, cleaner, newer
Ready to go
To fit into my line
And make a poem.


But clouds came,
the light dimmed
And the words stopped.
There will be a tomorrow the weatherman said

Mary on the shore, waving brightly
Life was good
I wrote your name in huge letters on the sand
You were the one
No time to admire said work
The sea so calm
Turned in anger and washed you all away
It was a sign
Just wasn’t to be
Mary on the shore, waving brightly
I turned and walked away.

painkillers for the body
and painkillers for the soul
I've wasted them all.
I fell into the darkness for which
I thought there was no cure.

Desperate, in denial,
laying on a dying bed
was waiting and waiting in silence
to be brought back from the dead.

And then your memory came again
a pale moon in the black sky
I found deep down in the darkness
a reason to get up.

I was lost in the night
until you taught me how to love the sun
cause you are but a shadow on my heart
and shadows can't exist without light