I can see it all so clear
as the wind from the oncoming storm
ravages the trees on the Northern side of the mountain
as if trying to uproot them

I gaze from above on Bear's Den
as Connor Brooks tries to finish the mowing
on his 40 acres and Molly's cries for him
to get inside before dinner gets cold
echo upwards in waves
beautiful waves

The Village Market
serves the last few customers
before closing up for the evening
Birdman, Mike and Fuzzy,
all friends since high school
are stopping at the Horseshoe Curve
for a glass or three
while discussing their shared memories

and of-course
Sarah...scurrying to get the clothes off the line
before the downpour
unaware her every sensual move is being watched
by the unlucky poet
who didn't quite grasp the moment
and reap the harvest
that lay there awaiting his attention
so many years have passed


timing never was something that seemed to fall my way
always seemed to be a day behind
realizing what I should have done
the day before
most things you get over
most missed chances eventually dissolve into the blur of life
like a bruise

Sarah never dissolved
never blurred

she hesitates for a moment after picking up the basket of clothes
as if she heard a far off voice call her name

it's just the wind

I.

No, don't go now. Please
don't go now; the fog is creating ghosts
out of people and we're breathing clouds out of our mouths.
Tell me about that time when you held your breath
under the lake for six years and still survived;
tell me how if I do that, it'll never work.
I'm not a sea God
any more.

II.

My knees tell better stories than my tongue
ever did, please don't; wretched hive harangues
the mind in a plague, can't you see I'm holding you down
and telling you you're all I ever wanted,
you're all I ever wanted; your head is the stuff of dreams
you're all I ever wanted; you can put your arm
right through me and only feel mist;
I am fog. I'm creating ghosts out of you.

III.

Make it up to me in a rainbow of hues of grey;
at the end of it I'm holding my ribs open. I've never
been more colourful and sad at the same time.
You're the mirrors to my house; stay
has always sounded better than don't go

yet neither seems to work anymore.

In the monsoon,
I walked colonised streets
trying to befriend a city,
forged fields and bright street lights,
they often vanished inside my eyes
to see happy children on beaches;
glass ceilings shattering to find a sky,
that broke down abruptly
to weep on my shoulders.
I swam in the rain
only to meet those children at the beach.
They roofed me under white curtains,
for the Witch might try to grab me,
plait my hair
and take me back
to her hall of circus.

Every flower,
every breeze,
every wounded bird in a city
are part of a folklore
where minstrels live,
they all sing me
back to beaches.

The grey lady walks through the ranks, and stops
Touches the shoulder of the chosen one
And death rightly takes its place
I saw her a lot in the early years
Dutifully going about her business
It seemed like she was responsible for the deaths of thousands
Only once did she stop before me
But she just smiled before moving on
That always confused me
Was I not good enough
How did she know who to choose
I became reckless for a time
Challenging her to take me
She just smiled, before moving on
Dutifully going about her business
One day I felt it, the calling
So strong, I almost welcomed it
She walked through the ranks towards me
Stopping in front of me
I waited for her touch
She whispered in my ear
You’re one of the protected.

lies
empty sand pictures
heavy shadows of nothing
commercialization of dreams
daughters of a snake
with nightingale mask
stench of corpses
locked in a chest of violets
they hit you like a stones  rain
catatonic
dust visions

I potted your healing purple verbena
comforting scarlet geranium
never will forget you
pink carnation
the roots were dry
so I added new soil
watered them good
they'll survive

your granddaughter
brought them here
along with "Phil"
the ancient philodendron
he's taken up residence
close to her bed
his elephant ears
spread wide and listening

I thought you would  
be pleased to know
she loaded plants
until the car was full
that she did find
a bit of solace
in the garden
you left behind

Sometimes when people can’t see you for whom you are,
They try to force you to be someone you really aren’t.
Real beauty is being true to oneself, Not by trying to be someone your not
A flower cannot change its color nor can Spring become Fall.

Don’t lose the person you really are
Because you are you and only you;
The mold was broke when they formed your star
Cheer up young one don’t be blue

I once knew a boy who always bought shoes two sizes larger,
Because he couldn’t bare the ridicule of having small feet.
You see, when you were conceived, genetically you became one of kind.
There’s no else like you, and believe it or not we all have physical imperfections.

Don’t lose the person you really are
Because you are you and only you;
The mold was broke when they formed your star
Cheer up young one don’t be blue

I once knew a boy who was thin as a stalk of corn,
And he if turned sideways and stuck out his tongue, He looked like a zipper.
He would get teased unmercifully, but if he had done just one think different,
Because when you laugh at your own flaws, disparagement and criticism are defeated.

Don’t lose the person you really are
Because you are you and only you;
The mold was broke when they formed your star
Cheer up young one don’t be blue

**Happiness doesn’t depend on any external conditions,
          it is governed by our mental attitude ~Dale Carnegie

My tears fell heavy like drops of pain
That shattered like glass on the floor
All carrying memories not the same
Each drop from my broken soul

And the sun begins;
Hot damp rays which
Glow in the morning,
Glaze in the evening
And blaze in the afternoon,

And dusk begins;
of feathery air and fireflies,
Hot as firey amber,
Cool as a sea of Shadow
Growing long as day grows old

And the summer fire fades;
Long red rays dip below the sea
The cool blue air like water
Drips through the open windows
And sets cool hands on fevered flesh

The early
          Summer
                        Sets
In a blaze

     And night becomes the world

every morning is too early, every ray of sunlight in the room is too bright. you can’t open your eyes all the way, but you’ll just have to work around it if you want to get anything done.

watch something ***** just to feel something, just to force some kind of reaction in a body that has been stuffed and emptied and prodded and picked apart, hands that don’t know what to do with themselves, lips that have spent too much time whispering the wrong secrets into the wrong ears.

you didn’t want to say yes but you didn’t want to say no, either, and now you’re stuck.

every day brings a new coping mechanism, a numbing agent. hours pass and you awaken to see yourself staring at plastic wrappers scattered over the bed, an empty tub of ice cream, a sticky spoon in the sink. go to the bathroom, wash your hands. blink at the mirror. anticipate the shame waiting for you when you drag yourself into bed.

you’re supposed to be on a road going somewhere, you promised you would be. you’ve booked your hotel and all that’s left is for you to put down the mileage. instead, you’re holed up in a ditch on the side, lying flat, hoping none of the passing cars will notice it’s you there, under the tarp, wondering why you’re always so cold. summon the courage to get back on the road, take a few steps, but you know it’ll just send you flying backward again - and for what?

you plan and plan and plan and plan, but it only gets you scraps of some life you never wanted. do your best, patch it into a quilt, but it’s not enough to keep you warm. somehow you know it never will be.