Like any writer I am
Concerned with the
Right word but only
So much if it eludes
Then I count it love's
Labor lost and it is
Only right for love
Should not be a bit
Of labor I am told.
Anyway I believe
That the ill fitting
Word can even at
Times work better.
Like the boy who is
Wearing his older
Brother's handme-
Downs may look
More winsome to
The loving eye who
Sees knowing life's
Struggle- understands
The child's goodness
Better than the tailor
Fit could express it.
Sometimes a little
Play a;  little wobble
Is best.  I am told the
Earth's orbit shows a
Small eccentricity that
It will probably grow
Out of just before we
All crash into the sun
Until then I say we can
All be write as we are.

Call it God; Call it Love
Our heart has arrows
Our soul takes aim
We are ready.  We know
What is right but woe
Is me it is not to be.  
The world gets in the
Way and our libido
Cannot be denied. The
Arrows go forth but
Miss their intended
Mark go not where we
Would have willed them
Our best desires are
Compromised.  It is
Not fair.  Our perfect
Love, our perfect life
Was it not meant to
Be?  What we have
At best is some kind
Of compromise that
Is by comparison with
The ideal clearly an
Ungodly mistake.
This gap between the
Ideal and the actual is
The noblest desire
Debased -is sin, an
Unwilled event that
Took the place of
What one could not
Have.  We do what we
Would not as Paul
Has said.  All knowl
Their True self but
All fall short.  Our
Disappointment with
Each other is mutual
Our love is imperfect
Beauty and truth that
We desired we could
Not have  though we
Burned for them.God
With held His best gifts
So we made do with
The baser metal and
Indulged in all manner
Of corruption. Such is
Our disappointment that
We must all be forgiven
Ought also to forgive all
But this is the  wisdom of
Love and comes at the end
Only after much time do
Know that we can love
One another even as
Imperfect as we are As
God loves his children
Because they all would
Be good if they could.

Conventi0nal logic tells us that
Nothing that is impossible is
Possible.  Good as far as it goes
But the known and unknown
Coexist- figure and ground-it
Is contrast that is ever needed
Necessarily coincident to be-
Come conscious of conscious-
Ness.  Thus though it seems
Illogical the nothing that is
Impossible must be possible.
What profit a man if he gain
The whole world but lose his
Soul?  Do we not know the
Answer?  But what difference
Does this knowing make?  No
Difference between difference
And No  difference because
They are One.  I die I am born
I die again.  Each is antithetical
Each is an affirmation of the
Other and are coincident in
The micro consciousness of the
Moment eternal. With God all
Things are possible because No
Thing is possible without God
I am that I am   All -Nothing
We Are like Him His Children

The wheatt grass girl was like
TheWee people, more spirit than
Woman; less sun than moon-
.  I would like to  catch her but
She would die.  It is better she
Is free and not mine to keep
It is a wane wine that I drink
That she may come near to
Take a sip.  I know she loves
The green tea more than me
But stiill I would like to know
Her better  like the Spring
Before she is gone forever.

After an uncertain amount of time
He woke.  It was  bitter realizing
He had died.  He knew he had not
Been a particularly good man nor
Bad.  He could not appeal his fate
To a higher power but still was it
His fate to be alive imprisoned in a
Coffin?. For who could tell how
Long? -it just did not seem right
Indeed it was unacceptable to
Him personally -to confront it
Head on was insupportable
His mind began to wander
Hither and wither  only to
Return to the gravity of
His situation after many short
Dalliances  with relatively
Pleasanter thoughts--bit
By bit like a Pavlovian dog
He returned less and less
At some point in his day
Dreaming he drifted off
To sleep thence to a dream
In it He was alive in a far
Land; a stranger it was  not
Without its fascination but
He keenly felt weighty
Sense of being alone and
Wondered at the wisdom
Of venturing further
He then came to upon
A cross roads where the
Paths diverged in a wood
Suddenly He remembered
He had died and if he woke
That is where he had left
It was that or choose to go
On living in the dream.
He chose the less traveled
Path; and that has made
All the difference; and the
Rest is history as they say.

Anyway it was long time
ago but I should say that
John after a long journey
Did find his way back to his old
Home and into the arms
Of his Beloved sweetheart
It was just another instance
Of the strange occurrences
At Owl Creek Bridge But
I do not suppose you remember
It was such a long time ago

Oh My Love
Won't you come back
I have been possessed
By your absence
I am tired of trying
Tired of Crying
It does no good
Still I cannot see you
Be with you.  Cannot
Forget your absence
It was all I had left
Could not let it go
Though I knew it
Was not you. No
It is not not you I seek
Leave me.  Go! You
Are not my people
I set you Free.  Oh
Hosea Let me tell
My People I have
Not forgotten you
In that place where
You said: You are
Not my people  There!
You became my people.
Praise be to the God of
Abraham who's son was
At the last moment was
Not sacrificed but saved
Your Love that seemed
Not to be but still was

I remembered you like it was
Yesterday, a long time ago
Brown eyed girl where was
It now that we were then?
I know we had a thing but
I forget what it was but for
A moment it was all coming
Back but it was so long ago
Hidden in a dusty niche
I felt tears welling- how much
I had lost a to time-the unknown
Unnowns of yesterdays that
I had once been familiar with.
As if between dreams;
Under attic eaves in an
Amber dusty light there
Was a time every day I
Used to come and play
With a little kitten to
Forget a world that was
Too much.
Not quite real nor
Yet a dream. a place
In between>  It was you
My brown haired girl.