There is rest to be found in laying down,
      laying           to close your eyes to sleep,
         down          weapons the peace to keep.

fought any word wars lately, conflict leaves emptiness,
           emptiness        of a life that was once full and rich,
               leave us          love, like trees limbs stark and cold.

plunging into life every day, like it is like a lake put on cold till spring,
                   until            at the bottom the depths of cold, trap and bring,
                 aspiring        hope that there is a flicker of life to survive.

the inability to be two people, both me and you when you can't be you,
      you      the child safe and warm, where no harm can find and
      Be,              to become the adult confident and strong with a

SONG,
A Paint Brush,
INK,
Fibre Arts,
CANVAS,
****, where did you go,
I SEE YOU, but you are no longer in THIS ROOM,
                          sorry don't mean to shout,
ideas scattered
across the floor
to cover,
a path to dance on............... out
of the forest of trees,
that you cannot see
until you leave
until I leave
the line of trees all so aged
that mark, where we came from,
a "scots" Pine, that is a Norway Pine,
                make up mine,
yours a white Oak, your skin so fine,
               by design, those English,

and in each season, the unreasonable,
tears at the bubble, let the peace out up and away,
using up all your spoons before you can climb out of bed,
and the bucket will go down the well to get water but, oh
dear the bottom has fallen out and the hemp rope is in such disrepair
it gathers on a wheel called despair, as the needles of the trees fall
about the place and the oak leaves tumble in the refreshing wind but get tripped up by the
acorns.

all these black edged pine needles,
scattered floating lifeless on the well water,
all these black edged oak leave clusters
you deserve show their worth,
while that black cloud
RAGES
over head and fills the air with dread,
that something will be found, amiss,
and the volcano will show up
and the lava will flow
and will wilt me
like a lettuce leaf,
in the sun of summer.
Not that it brings hope....
but it has to.

Salt crystals, de-icing road spray, sand, that grit,
Crow minstrels, squirrels play, coyotes sprint
all
along
the
boulevard,
tear drops fall,
angry voices call,
a hand with rough knuckles and a L O V E tattoo
caresses a naked shoulder in tight jeans,
even though it is minus six
unless
the transport
trucks speed,
down the main
drag,
ups the wind chill,
the city of green spaces,
upturned faces shine with hope?
or looking for the the thirty plus
BMX rider with their dope,
'round here
a hit can be three things,
drug related,
gang related,
or another pedestrian
defenestrated
from a cross walk framed pane,
wrong place in time,
because the reaper
behind the wheel will
chill the reality of how
winter
kills

skip through my meddled,
alpine wash of flowers, watered-
down disarray of colours, smattered
on the rocks, that don't roll.

does the mind squander,
what the heart believes,
are there desires that deceive?
does the lone wanderer,
forever court disaster receive,
                                 a reprieve?

prostrate find me, let love unbind me,
unbind my tongue, my words, my speech,
is anything free anymore, anymore,
have i got you ravin' for more and
is it fuelled or fooled by passion
                      in what you believe,
                           it is right to write?

Anybody could slap these words around,
                 non-violently, and be better at it, see?
                  heart be brave while lunatics rant and rave
                      about right and wrong, challenge them
                        to make lyrics and put legalism in a song.

Tomorrow will be a bad day, I am not in a place to say why,
or how I know, I too often have let my emotion show,
in abject humility, I am an embarrassment to all who know me.
Sorrow will fill my hours, and my eyes, there is not enough space
around me to breath, suffocates my ability to communicate,
I cease to exist and lose all hope, dreams like steam evaporate.

The yellow brick road lies, if the truth be unrolled
rusty spike in the last railway tie,
childhood dreams scream of deceit,
even if you have had the best mother,
two boys could ever have.

while i skip down the aisles of
grocery stores and the tears of my
life seep from pores so small they
make up for them in numbers like
ninety-nine and the one,

am i a lonely sheep for the slaughter
or in want of a lonelier shepherd,
have i fallen with no will to get up,
then let me die...

mystery of a breath,
an exchange,
my eyes look to where,
yours would be,
your fragrance easily
intoxicates me,
in the lonely darkness,
another mystery

Speak to me, in sounds and in words,
Let me see, clearly an explosion of birds,
From the thicket,
From the bush,
From the field and scrub,
                                                                            
Sound like thunder, flash like lightening
Let me touch, every spoken drop of rain,
From the clouds,
From the trees,
From your eyes,
                          
And if I may,
brush those tears away,
from your lips,
with my own, or...my fingertips.

What if you don't cry?
What if you don't dream?
Then I will shed enough for two,
Hold you close, if you trust me too,
Let you sleep so deep, so sound,
That peace will be your comforter,
                     as I wrap my arms around,

and hold you gently dear,
so that once you wake up,
you may brush my tears,
those, happy, foolish, tears away.

is it the music,
or,
is it the lyrics,
and
the bones, three
small
bones in my ear,
that
are in my head,
or
is it the poetry
you
stir in my heart
in me,
no not you love,
or
you my lover,
but
the pictures that
a
line of words drawn
can
make on the sands of
time
and again spoken
read,
aloud as if we would
ever
be in the same room,
at
the same time, staring,
into
the others eyes, yours
so
pure and mine so soiled,
by
all that has been read
only
saved by the sounds
of
you walking in the
garden,
and the sounds of the
words,
when said together,
hard
constant consonants,
soft
vowels, like vixens
whispers
that vibrate the bones,
in
my broken hard hearted head,
hold
my hand, say the words with
me,
of poets who write through
tragedy,
of poets who write drunk poetry,
sobering
thoughts while living life while
living
a life, that does not satisfy, that
is
not lived one moment at a
time,
peace full pools shimmering
to
the words of the poet, prose
of
the poet, rhyme over reason-
able
verse in life's worst disasters.
Hold me.