Remarkable , the guile of migratory
birds for they willingly travel home by memory alone
The diligent October wasp with certain death
awaiting behind some unmarked door
The sunlit , short shimmering life of piedmont morning
dew brought to prominence by it's eventual killer
The curve of the Earth indignant to the lurid passing day
Morning Glory swan song riddler , April flurry Winter bereft
The resolute breaker commanding the shore with it's
dying breath

A white pickup truck chasing a brown sedan
Silver birds , one after the other once again
A corporate 'Cat' chasing the prize goose for a window view
Cops and robbers on the tube , the morning news *******
session , the evening robot spew
The internet truth , the newspaper gobbledegook , the
song with the same hook , the heroes , the Nero's ,
the high numbered and the zeros* ...

Family is a lovely , familiar pastel tablecloth 'cover' with a silver candelabra , red wooden apples in a talented craftsman's checkerboard basket , heirloom oak chairs guarding the surface of a dining room table with scratches , deep cuts and numerous depressions , unremovable stains , weathered and never revealed , painful and forever speechless haunting reminders* ....

to live a life of poetry
a celebration;
embodying highs and lows
preferring neither.

Sometimes the velvet blue night is a sorcerers cloak , prestidigitation
centered on my downfall , the pun of a hurtful joke , belted to the yoke ,
trudging my demons at the crack of the whip , a clipper ship mired in the
doldrums yet life has no braking system , it's a no replay theorem , no drain to open to whirlpool away , no script to learn of the coming days , no Madison Square Garden for petty songs , no oracle defining right from wrong* ..

Have you ever walked the habanero row
Worked in spicy air that wouldn't let go
Run to the henhouse like stormy wind
Sit with the chickens till the burning ends* ..

Papa cut the spurs off of Rocky Red
The rooster keeps flogging every time -
I turn my head
He's dancing a jig with a wing dropped
low , turning circles and singing bass notes
Rock'***** both legs till they've bled
Please snip the hooks off ' a mean old Red* ..

When time and wind and earth
Has stripped away our skin and flesh
And turned our bones to dust and ash
What then will we remember of what we were in life that was beautiful
What do dead eyes dream of when they become ethereal ghosts
Of echo and mist
And the heart has long since flown away to another life
To love and break and scar and love
And watch another cage made of bone
Age and rust and fade away
To time and wind and earth
And slowly forget what in life was beautiful
What then can dead eyes do
but dream
And count the colors of
Time and wind and earth
And see the echo of the mist
Of what makes all things beautiful
And in the vision of this fog
What do dead eyes dream
But the dream of
life and love
And love and life
of all things beautiful

your poem is
or the reasons
it came about
it is here so
shout it out
climb to the top
of the mountain
and scream hey world!!
and when you
did that
write again
and stay proud

Found yaw marks on the blacktop
Someone had a bit of trouble trying to stop
Maybe got distracted by something unknown
He struggled to get it together and carried on
Maybe he was showing how much he could handle and lost control
I understand his situation for I've been guilty myself at times of all four* ..

My Zebco 33 is part of my family
you see , on many a troubled day this
precision piece of machinery has helped
to foster great clarity , encouraged playful
lakeside banter , put many a panfish or two
in the creel as well
This old reel has ne'er skipped a beat in
thirty plus years , a faithful friend , riverbank
companion , an American workhorse in the blue
collar tradition , the 'go to friend' of a grateful fisherman* ...

At the playground little girls whisper , point and giggle
Boys would reach for the top of the slide , form clicks
according to muscle , tenacity and determination
Shooters and aggies , jackstones , hopscotch
Open coats in Novembers breeze , bright leaves in a
whirlwind , the squealing merry-go-round , balancing on the
roots of Live Oak trees with ***** knees , trading lollipops
for gum , whimsical erasers for big number two pencils
Watching from a railroad tie sand lot border , writing rhyme
in white sand , singing a new song to myself , playing the cello
in my imaginary band , waiting for the white confusion of recess
to come to a quick end* ....

If you wish to know me the path runs through
my poetry* ...