An empty scroll
Quill inscribing words
Poetry is born

In silence we agree
that someday we will be
finding ourselves South Bound.
In recent days I’ve found
this city to be suffocating.
We need something invigorating.
Though when we talk aloud
about being south bound
I notice that it mostly seems
like we are sharing only dreams.
And so in silence we agree
That someday we will be

And I had a lovely wife
I once had a prestigious job
Where I worked long hours
And rarely saw my lovely wife
I once had a bank account
Where I hoarded my pennies
As if they’d follow me to heaven
I once had a massive home
With many rooms and stairs
And hallways that led to nowhere
I am now at last a happy man
Who has many friends
And I live a simple life
I once had a lovely wife
But I once was a wealthy man

smiles revealed during September,
leads to words throughout November,
and greater things come in December

now its May
and some days
it feels like I'm falling apart,
because my love can do nothing to mend your broken heart

things have a way of coming back to us
what was the name of that song by Yes?

well it's only the second sighting of you this week
wish we could sneak
back to your place,
but everyone can tell
by the look on my face,

its a Thursday

I love the buttons on your coat
and the way you can't hold your smoke
corduroys and shades of blue

driving down the road
there is a sound
but we both know, it's just the snow

just abdicate your objections
they incapacitate my affections

I don't need to ameliorate my attendance rate

I'm losing every ambition that I thought I ever had
no one even notices
no surprises, no surprises there

deja vu for you
I'm certain this future isn't true
I just can’t say adieu

She heard it when she left the room
That held them in like a murky tomb
And forced them to a painful crippled state.
He wailed aloud
Like a lonely child
A hungry and a desperate, “How I need you!”

That simple phrase
Was all it took
To make her raise
Her head and look.

In the middle of the room he stood.
His eyes said all they ever could.
They were pained and needed somewhere to cling.
With strength at last
She whispered fast
A careful and a trembling, “I need you too.”

The water’s new
Purpose is to carry the old salmon into the Earth.
To harbor the young, watch them grow,
Show them the ways and streams of life.
It brings them with current’s flows
Down the river where the flow recycles.

After the offspring are born, their body recycles
Into the river where the new glimmering fish swim up stream in a new
Trail. A river that curves like a beaten path pushes down on the fish when it flows
Underneath the soil and Earth.
This is where the lowest forms of life
Live in the dark and cold but always grow.

As I age, I grow
When I die, my body recycles.
I realize that I know how to love life.
I will come back replenished and new.
My body is one with the Earth,
My spirit roams and flows.

I am the river in the morning rays of sun that flows,
I am the blooming golden sunflower will grow,
I am the animal of all different shapes and sizes that belong to the Earth.
I live because of the recycles,
Like the grass that is long and not new.
I am all of nature’s life.

Soft, mossy grass that I step on is pulsing with life.
It moves and flows
In and out of the old and new.
With its knowledge it learns to grow.
It creates, destroys, and recycles
Land, rivers, oceans, and the Earth.

My sun streaked curls lay gently on the Earth
As I hear the ground race and scurry with life.
The past turns, contracts, and recycles.
A faint thunder of the brook is heard as it bends and flows.
Here in the trees, I have watched the young fledglings grow,
I let myself go, as I turn my body in and turn old to new.

The sun comes up new and warm. It heats the Earth
As it grows in the sky and brings the plants to life.
When the sun goes down, the moonlight flows and the sky recycles.

Long hair, mixed feelings
love strains, people stop
early spring, late awakening
trailing with fear, outsiders glance
giving up, walk so strait
histories curse, the curse that all jib
but find it following to meet you no more.

All the Beautiful things,
Make me feel like I have wings,
Even on a stormy day,
When all words are hard to say,
The wings still lift me to the sky,
Higher than a bird can fly,
So I can see all these things,
And that is when I start to sing,
But these things are forgotten,
Just like some worn out cotton,
Even though these things exist,
People cross them off the list,
Soon no one will care,
What these things have to share,
All who knew of these things,
Now act like greedy kings,
But there is still a little hope,
For people to climb up the rope,
And see all the beautiful things,
And appreciate what this world brings.

Her spirit was lost
when I was born,
torn from her heart.

Start, from the
beginning, singing,
no lullaby for
this new born.

Cry baby, cry as
her spirit did die,
she fled, bled, dead.

Alive in body
lightening sent to
her brain drained
what fire was left.

Bereft this child
still cries in the dark,
hark! Where is the
Lullaby, hushaby,
For this new born?