Thunder and pain,
Feeling the rain.
Waiting for salvation,
In a night of starvation.
Brightening the dark sky,
The lightning, fly by.
Why i so feel?
It will make me heal.
Giving self a justification,
For every piece of action.
If it is wrong or right,
Who is to decide?
There is nothing to gain,
Life will eventually drain.
In the moment of despair,
Let hope, make it repair.
Like a thunder in the clouds,
Break through every bounds.
Like the sound of the light,
Keep the zeal to fight.
Your thirst will be quenched,
Thunder will give you the strength...

Sunday in the city,
in the grey and golden morning,
it's still enough to hear the birds
clamor in their rosy waking.

The pillowed bands of cloud,
moved by sunlight,
glow and slide across the sky,
lighted blue.

To wake early in the city,
to be lonely,
everything becomes eerie
and beautiful.

The folks on the bus
staring out
at the passing
abandoned buildings boarded up.

Quiet but for the bus
and the birds chirping
somewhere unseen
in the lattice of leafless trees.

Under patient birds and sun ray,
the cicadas,
drunk from seventeen years sleep,
woke slow today.

They rose from below the loam,
from homes chosen
so,
so
many insect years ago.

Red eyed crawling of beautiful song,
is to love
what you've learned
in waiting so long?

Out in the field near our cabin
I see little tracks in the snow
Leading to the edge of the tree line.

We follow.  Loving the smell of pine
I run my hand through the branches
Snapping a twig to capture the scent.

When we are home, sitting by the fire,
I will say, "Here is the memory of trees
And of our trek.  Smell."

And, you will take my hand in yours,
Gently raise it to your nose; then we will love
Amidst the memory of pines.

Not a bird in sight, nor insect, nor squirrel
Loud silence lacks cars and the usual whirl
These winds are like whistles
Through the fingers of trees
Closed windows are pummeled
By torrential pings

These mushroom spores and petrichor
Are easy to inhale together

The sacred ones
spin
circular,
tethered
to the womb
of the Mother,
pierced
forever.

See the sacred clowns
on the edge of tomorrow,
they sip sage tea.

I hear the winds,
I hear the winds
across
the great plains,
blowing
from the four.

As the day dies sun to west slants
my hands water the few potted plants
an evening dawns in melancholic hush
pesters my mood the cawing corvus!

The nose in the air polished jackdaw
can’t fathom why men break nature’s law
wipe out forests root out the green
then on the roof try to grow seedling!

Why at all shrink the men so smart
stretches of wood to build habitat
all the clever brains profound and wise
destroy wastelands to madly urbanize!

The corvus his eyes speak of dark scare
frightened beak caws how is unfair
denuding of trees in insane haste
leaving scarce space to build him a nest!

The morning opens her arms to me, perfumed with dew drops on grass blades. Hanging loosely over her body an iris cloud dress gleams incandescent watermelon pinks and tangerine. Her solar eyes twinkle, the alabaster one winks as if to say,

I know of your deja vu dream from earlier.

We dance sun salutations.

That's when it dawns on me that I'm on a date with the morning.