Through the valleys, sparkling rivers flow, soothing us with lively sounds and renewing the forest alleys.
The wind blows, yellow ink paints fertile soils, and above, the birds call, dance in the rain, chirp on the branches, bathe in the air in the oils of the Sun showers.

The trees are tall towers, and the stones below lie wrapped in silver foil. They envelop the depths of our earth's core,
remembering the past and preserving our home for centuries blessed to come. Our hearts play the strings of life. May our eyes be emptied of prejudice and despair.

I bow to thee - the bestower of beauty to all.
You are the artist on the black paper, while the blue mountains are the throne of your kingdom. You look over the vicinities of life as you guide us walking in the chaos. Your colors fill the blank paper with the motley rays of spring, and the drawing is always there.

Unburden
Let go
Breathe
Without resistance
Let life flow
Pause for a moment
In the joy of existence

They come on like small shocks,
Like faulty neon lights,
Gauche in purple, and bright.
Memory. Blinking OFFf and ON.
I follow them like the swimmer,
Thinking to rest on the lake buoy,
But finding it too slippery;
Not panicking, but worried,
Then turning.

Stuff and things get sold or razed,
Re-zoned or re-engineered.

I can't walk those streets and places,
Not in life or memory.
I'm better off
Staying out of the lake.
And under the neon light'

Turn up my colar to the cold and damp.

I assume the alleyway is there,
Where we left it;
And the five towering pines,
Like young brothers,
Slap branches at one another,
And grow in the winds.

My heart is a sword in stone
The walls surrounding it are impenetrable
Some would say more difficult to break than bone
Only the rightful will be able to draw my affection
No this is not pretension but only the most selective, honest and true placement of intention
But could that be my affliction
Being so guarded that I’m also blinded to the pure curiosity and interest of another
It makes me wonder

am I the reason I suffer

Eh, could be an option
I don’t think it’s wrong to lead with caution
In other words my heart is not up for auction

As It is just the most
important decision

I must move with only sincere fragility
Which takes much resiliency
For it is the only path
to true intimacy

Only the most patient and worthy
Will be bestowed such a trophy
A gift of the most rare
to be able to show one’s self so bare

There is a
force at work that
doesn't want me
to write.
There's always
something vying for
my attention.
The phone rings,
the kittens want
played with,
I get *****.
All I have to
do is think about
writing, and the
next thought is
I should take
a nap.

To read about
writing
isn't enough.
To promote my
writing won't cut
it either.
To finish one more
poem, to communicate
something worthwhile
is what will help
me sleep tonight, and
keep the undertaker
lonely and afraid.