Where the grasses magically pirouette , where Spanish Moss dances . The illusion of Oaks kissing the land off in the distance ..
As leaves rejoice and sprint green fields in search of home , sweet gum cones shine like silver dollars ..
Studious farm animals graze upon endless fodder , Pekin ducks
imbibe indigo blue waters ..
Where the Sun caresses the back of my neck and shoulders , where my
Grandfather waves , reading Whitman from his porch ..
White Turkeys brighten the rural horizon , the scent of homegrown tomatoes tickles my nose , the allure of honeysuckle fence line and prickly , white Cherokee rose ..

How many images do you see , in a hardwood thicket minus the leaves ? Abraham Lincoln taking a stroll , Martin Luther King big and bold ..
Jesus on the mount looking to the sky , thoughtful Rachel Carson with a tear in her eye ..
I invite you to walk one January eve , off to explore your heroes lying in the trees !

When I hear Steppenwolf I smell **** , when Foreigners playing
I'm tripping on tab tea .. Danny Joe Brown was yelling , ZZ Top was my musical religion .. Black Sabbath rocked my world , Robin Trower made my head swirl ! My Sg and Peavey would make the ground burn , my wah pedal made the Earth turn ...
Bostons first album blew my mind , Running with the Pack and a bottle of wine ....
Randolph Wilson was my occupation , Jimi Hendrix held it all together !

Joyously we would meander through the peach groves in the month
of April ... A hundred blossoms on every tree , simple everyday beauty as far as my young eyes could see ..
Grape arbors under diligent care , wisteria filled the cool morning air ..
The morning dew , wind blew life into rolling hillsides , Springs new calves played tag in the afternoon sunshine ..
Guineas always longing for new places to forage , piglets in the henhouse , Brown rooster wing to the ground , dancing a warning !
Noon heat and four o'clock showers , the church bell in town struck
every hour ..
Bethel Church would come alive on Sundays , joyous hymns that echoed through the country ..

Refracted images from pools of standing water , tall people and fast cars passing wet crossroads , in this rural , sleepy village I call home . Cirrus hope and reminders that follow rainy yesterdays , storms bound for the churning North seas , to the cliffs of an Irish village later in the week ? To the vineyards of France then off to a Mediterranean beach .. From simple beginnings grow immense dreams indeed ..

may I or you be illiteral?
Write something with a purpose from
another point of view. Try to empathize by feeling
close, like an actor does to what we need to portray?  
I do.
I write from others points of view , sometimes.
Not every thing I did I write down.
Not everything I write was me.
I do try to portray what they may have felt and
try to experience what they might have.
I know it's an imperfect theme, a movie script
not fit for television. It's my thing.

from the eaves
into warm puddles by my feet
always falling are meanings

There are still
people in the
World
With
Clean eyes

The people
Who have
A pleasant
Profile

Their pure
Scent is
Another simile
For goodness

I've lost my
Bronze shiny
Anchor

Therefore
Anaforas in
Before spring
Blossoms do
Afloat

Me and you
Are a rolling
Records

Cosily unbound
Wraped around
The ancient aquamarine
Amphoras

As the numinous, dire
Paragraphs of our lifes
Know also of the succulent
Sweetness. Inspiration.
And everything.

I am. You.
Omnipresent

We collide with marvels.
Rainbowy bubble plops.
The world is back again.
Trickeling over tenderly
Undulated membranes.
Also the eyelid seas.

United in the ephemeral,
Ever changing images.

Desire and goodness.
The day and those nights.