later the day dusks, air cools,

down the back track to the lane.


there is fire in the sky,

why don’t the trees burn?


one cloud hovers, red,

one cloud .

this is a later walk,

early mornings

spent writing.


see the birds roost,

hear the last call,

black bird

this is dusk.

sbm.

today, my friend,

teach me in the ways
of joy,

i have had lessons enough
in sorrow,

i do not desire to learn the ways of anger.

so please, teach me joy.

i promise, i will learn,
with thoughtful, thoughtless abandon.

Tonights stars look like bubbles
In a glass of champaign,
Like the world got drunk
On all the dreams we didn't chase

Sometimes the crayon breaks in the middle of your drawing
That doesn't mean you stop; blend your sun-rays into skylines
You'll look like Van Gogh seeing
Setbacks as opportunities to find
Beauty you never would have thought to look for

Could you please pretend,
For one night,
That you're in love with me?

Cuddle up next to me,
But not like last time;
Like you're here for me,
Not just coincidentally

Turn your gaze toward me
With a look of deep content
And a twist of sweet happiness
And kiss me back this time
When I kiss you on the cheek

Hold my hand
And move your fingers,
Caressing mine,
And making me feel
As adored as you are

slosh of oars
ripples the night
of tremulous moons

the nightjar soars
on silver light
a sad tune croons!

tides up swell
lap the wood
in ceaseless kiss

moon grows pale
in deep brood
of broken wish

the misty haze
spells the core
spins a dream

mind in daze
forgets shore
drifts upstream!

I was a teenager.
a boy unshaven amongst
pimpled, insecure junior
high school brats.

I'd sit in the dark of my room,
hearing my father's smoker's
cough through the wall
under my Pantera.

long hair, biker boots, leather
coats and torn jeans was asking
to be excluded where I lived. oh,
I asked, begged, pleeded that

they would.
some did; most saw me as
a necessity they
compared themselves with

to assure themselves as normal.
mainstream. accepted.
at least I'm not freak like
Holter.

no. I built this confidence and
character alone.
that was my way to walk.
those were my teenage memories.

don't ever be afraid to get noticed.
it takes grit and
confidence; strong legs to
stand out. and stay there.

I hammer will into wealth.
I harden principles,
sharpen my sense of
value.

wipe beads of sweat from
forehead and face, leaving
streaks of oil and blood upon
features

weathered by yesterday's
scolding self-loathing.
it took me nowhere.
gave me nothing.

I put chisel to the weld uniting
days past with those to come,
and divorce the need to
regret. to bang

my head against the wall of
who I once were.
the hurt I've dealt.
the stupid things a young man

can say under influence and not.
my whitest coals were the
trust I placed; the handle of my
hammer in the hands of

any authority seeming capable  
to swing it against an anvil
more often empty than not.
no more. not again.

I forge my own future.
breathing on hot coals, thrusting
raw metal into the red heart of
the fire.

this is my forgery.
I built it with my own two hands.
the only two
that may create within it.

I dream of not being.
of fading, reduced to gratitude
for all that flowed, floated,
glimmered and shone.
then unbecome.

every day a dream.
every night aware of
daybreak unafraid.
we must all awake into
the othernesses

of belonging.
let the last grain of my person
be lifted on a wind so gentle
it carries; holds with
nothing but care,

and know with the last of
what once was heart, that to
love and thank was all I was
supposed to do.
if so, I did very, very well..

as fragile
as a songbird -

her hands

knotted and spotted
from many winters


november came one last time -
i held her hands in mine - gently

- gently, she flew away
to where songbirds go
when it's cold in the mountains.

r ~ 11/18/14

For all the goodness this screen provides;
for its instant gratification;
for the evolved digital relay of self-published creativity;
for the immediate responses and comments
from half a world away.
For its space saving mastery.
I long to hold all your words, verses and rhymes intimately
within glossy or plain protective coat of hard card
Your spine dunked in the cup of palm
headcap to tail resting in crux of arm
or nestled like a lover upon lap.
I could take you to bed.
I want to thumb through your pages
Pages once mashed and pulped and pressed to dry.
I long to feel the weight of words physically
to smell the freshness along each hinge crease,
and caress the texture.
To return to those most fond
charactered with dogear
underlined with ballpoint
and pencilled margin notes.
Even the mild smudge of finger tip dirt
when I simply could not wait to picking you up before washing.
If only this screen was a page
One of millions ever changing
I could hold all your work close
and fall asleep with your words
waiting in rest beside me
always
beside
me....

They fall . . . gold ,

         bronze . . . copper . . . and brass

Jeweled like glass

         'n emerald . . . ambered . . . and rubied

The days of my life

         fall autumned . . .

               sudden . . . and fast