Maybe we’re spose to trip when we walk,
Spit when we talk,
Sometimes fall short.

Maybe its ok that we overreact,
From our lack, of personal tact.
Maybe it’s ok to feel disatached,
When we cannot latch,
Or know how to act.
Maybe it’s okey to grow from bad,
Reflect on the sad,
Miss what we had.

Maybe they’ll be A day,
That we can look back,
On days we didnt quite hack,
Or the times we cracked,
And learn to abstract,
With give and take slack.

To the young ones who have been taken from us? I write about all things beautiful for there is many that cross the sky of life.
love does exist for me, only if I can as well see time as a sign an opportunity, to find, as a part of my design, to free the blood of my inner child, is to live, love, write and protect the beauty of the innocent child.

.
We drove to the wild poppy fields,
Lost and opened under felt sun,
To picnic in solemn spent wonder
And celebrate new founded love.

Teapot rains came whispering in—
The skies blue up a clouded mood
And old mist rose in lighted eyes,
To stark sheet of uncovered brood.

We talked of one day, this day now,
As we laid with the lovelorn flowers,
A day for pictures, unmarked boxes,
How droplets grew to cold showers.

We broke down then and took leave,
Of letted time in tiers now dead—
There under cathedral glass of sun,
Our cut love smoked in poppyhead.
.

.
Time is teasing along with lush earth so pleasing,
The minutes of our youth are spent in toiled days
And sands are blowing the weld of our sold means,
Foundations of dust, the cries unheard, of the aged.

And then, as dream, you came from the starry skies
Blue and small as the ocean dot, forever fixed—
Reigning over the frozen, revolving moon that lies,
Dimly wakes in your fabled orbit, my fated ellipse.

Now, time tables and splits, renders me to eaves
Undone, my squandered youth was but a sad play
And I am clocked with wind, the geld of my dreams,
Had shiftless hands been more solid than my days.
.

.
Light sparkles in the clover,
Yellow and blurr of bees
Are honeyed in the sun
And robins have come,
Yanking in the grasses,
So green is the moisten
Of the painting of the dew
And all is lolling in petrichor,
The soils running with slow
Time so shortly experienced,
Oils of wood permeate the air,
Lapping brooks bream into light,
The loft kestrel swirls in meadow
And chipmunks scuttle at base of tree,
Even the wind does freshly quiet, crisply,
There as a hug waiting for body and spirit,
Patches of white are disappearing, they know—
That one day we must all return, after winter snows.
.

You have imprinted
My eternity
Walking on by me
Giving backward glance
And inviting smile

This magnetism
In fecundity
Your step fragile yet
Some great gravity
About your presence

You venal, naive
Yet like the woman
There is caveat
Men observe caution
Green little Mantis

Swaying in the breeze
your flowerprint skirt
Disappears from view
Down the boulevard
The perfume remains

May see you again
Next incarnation
Somewhere in my walk
Across life and time
Will you remember


© P.M.H 2009

.
Flowers so rare and fine,
Missing from this dry world,
Lost, unwatered, unseen, yet
No ones and none despaired,
They then planted their garish
Seed in blot sun, most sodden,
Soppy soils sprayed which fell
On the plainest, most commoner
Grounds, such fertile dirt, wrought,
Then, all who came to view where
But gaggles of proud mediocrity
Who arrived to revel and preen,
Unjust, they remade this earth,
Once lively, to be lame, what
Celebrations they now need
What praises they do crave,
Sadly, they could not know,
A flower for the weeds.
.