Life holds in it's hands
The perceptions eye,
The path that goes on
And the souls that stay;

Life breathes from the womb
Of on the sleepwalking people,
Life is a birth of clarity
In a world of crystalline doubt;

Life breaks and molds the light
We use in the momentary existence,
Wielding great joy and furious
Strife at the throat of the silence;

Life is the Word spoken to the other
As naked thoughts unknown,
Hooked by love,
Dissolved in ignorance;

The living bound to the dust
As quickly to beauty as the moment,
All are sacred
If only for a little while.

May a hex befall this yard grubbing , bedeviling varmint called Armadillo . Your nothing but a Virginia opossum in tankers armor , and I've rock salt in my shotgun this evening to tan your tin-can , little bottom !!

I would wade the calling circumstance before me , free of pagan
resistance .. To describe my color blue , the music of the lake , the calm
of the morning field ..
Raging fires of love , the yield of passion , musics hidden calling ,
echoes across frozen woodland that cry in supplication ..
Black shapes on white media foster ...I am the seagull dancing for
his next meal once more ... Yellow bell salutations , the crow that told the Jay
that called out across the wailing , waiting world , with the Noon cry of repetitive thought and due candor .. Moss atop dead Pine , familiar with it's lot in this life .. The end lying in every direction , hue of birthing green and silver blue resurrection ..
Tall white Pines tickle laughing skies , brown resignation tugging
a struggling mind to the West free , cool March afternoon ....
Sweetgum cones locked in deaths final embrace , their last gaze
unknown . Still as the day , surrounded in life's music , the love of
warm wind , the call of bush berry with each new growth of the coming
Spring .. The white reflective glow down quiet roadways , O' to forever seek such analogy for descriptive written means ....

Your kindness
a sunflower
whose many seeds
sustain the sparrow's
song of joy
and rest assured
do gorgeously
germinate in
thin-hulled souls
the soil is ripe
love yearns
to be reborn.

I lived in a war zone
Streets filled with razor wire
Nothing much to cling to
Nothing to inspire

On one side was my enemy, and
Filled with angst and hate
I lobbed all sorts of insults
The war would not abate

But one of my neighbors
Suggested that I find
Some forgiveness in my heart
To give me peace of mind

And so I started cleaning
Picked up all my waste
Swept up in all the corners
And found peace at last!

Across the street they saw plain
The white flag I errected
It was a thing that gave them pause
Not what they expected!

They threw trash, and they threw dirt
Upon my sidewalk paved
But i expect that I just swept
And gave a friendly wave!

After a while of this response
They were in retreat!
They could never get a rise!
They knew their hate was beat!

And so together as one
We removed the razor strands
And had a big BLOCK PARTY!
We even had a band!

And so "us" and "them"
Finally became "we"
No more HATE! Isn't that GREAT?!!

*At last we're finally FREE!

Dead flowers are brittle, break
easy.
Dust covers the things you gave me,
mutes them, claims them, overtakes
them, squeezing the pages of books
together until they choke,
clouding the glass jar that you use
as a vase for the dead flowers.

Dead flowers do not need water, live
easy.
You made
the bed this morning
so if memory failed me
I would have no way of seeing today
that you were here last night.
And when I blink my eyes,
for that moment they're closed
I cringe with the sudden goodbye,
every instant turned away from your face
filled with the graceless empty
of having just finished a book.
No longer able to live in its eyes,
burrow into its spine, nestle
into the crook
of its neck.

dead flowers are brittle, break easy,
please, please be careful
with this–

I see two fire trucks pass each other
going opposite directions.
As I’m trying to think of a clever metaphor
for poor planning
I remind myself that at least one family
is standing in a thigh high pile of fine ash
that was their home
just an hour ago.
Maybe two families.
These thoughts and others haunt me when I’m pulled from my duck footed sidewalk reverie
by a lottery ticket stuck in the riff-raff that separates
Gateway Ave from the parking lot of the Nervous Hospital.
It is laid bare like a mugging victim;
crumpled up and inches from the gutter.
That was someone’s dream
just a day ago.
Think I’ll cross the street-
give that homeless vet a dollar.
It’s my last one.
My house has fleas, but
it ain’t on fire.