I'd befriend the obsidian sky...
   I'd shower it with a bounty of praises.
  So that it'll welcome my nightly gaze,
     without threats from overbearing clouds.

     I'd impress the twinkling stars
       by serenading them with songs unheard by most.
     So that when the time comes,
  they'd cast their votes in my favour.

I'd whisper to the nighttime breeze.
   I'd cavort and giggle at its slightest touch.
      So that when I fly my flag,
   it'll catch it in full billows for her to see.

Then finally...
  I'd woo the twilight moon...
     For she is the prize
   my heart had sought to pursue.
    I'd court her
      with the fiercest blaze that burns within...
     In hopes that she'd forever
   remember me as the suitor that had
fallen helplessly.

"Want to wear words,
like clothing, a tailor and an editor,
am I not stitching,
threads into a finest tapestry,
then the very thought to blog,
bogs and constipates desire,
leaving me to log the frustration
on paper pages to cook up ideas of which
the Best of Which,
have simmered away...
but I taste the air above this write of yours;
it restores the delight,
to write for others,
briefly log my take and give on life,
thanks for the encouragement,
ha ha, more, more"...
Ottar

why write praise of others,
when their own words
do all the work

bring your pen and quill,
he says,
and the hands
by them employed,
perform on the Pantages Theater
in Tacoma

put your toys aboard a
kayak
peddle paddle the Columbia,
blade one in Washington,
the other, propulsion oriented to the Oregon side,

he in the cockpit,
wonder wandering reflecting
what is the life story of a
beggar man
with so many, already,
steve-adore friends
in ore-gun,
who all can carry words
from their ships into shared knapsacks,
all for breaking
the fast
that men's soul
sometime suffer

words given each of us,
free and given freely

better have the wisdom to hear the best,
finery
in them
and this man's soul work, simple,
record, record...record
and share

the finer, better,
finery of yours*
free