Climbing trees
Breathing deep
Feeling the breeze
Take a leap

I'm free
I'm a flea
On Earth
There is no worth

Its on my mind
That we are all blind
Mankind is confined
Because we wont combine

We can not be defined
We are beautifully designed
I feel I'm inclined
To remind

A frame of mind
Where will all combine
To live as one
No need for bofors guns, hired guns, machine guns or bombing runs

Just Fun
For everyone
Imagine this for me
Believe and see
Us as one

I got a beautiful journal for my birthday.
Red leather, small enough to fit comfortably in my hand.
I'm too afraid to write in it;
The pages feel special,
Like they deserve words
That are pure and beautiful.
I can't pencil in words that would
Desecrate the ****** smoothness of those sheets.

I'm afraid to write something that doesn't
Live up to what I think
Is worthy to grace the insides of that
Beautiful journal.

A small Gust blew
over a pond,
None too shabby
None too strong

A Leaf was pushed
detached from home,
fluttered softly,
fell alone

It landed by
a tiny Bug-
who held on tight
as it tugged

But near a Frog
that snatched at it;
though made a noise
when it's tongue flicked

A hunting Bird heard-
caught a view,
swooped on down
put its talons through

And as it struggled,
its wings galloped
until the sun exploded
and messed it up.

Living reality is difficult,
Fantasies are what keep you smiling.
In the chamber of my mind,
Forever seems absolutely possible.
But what is this holding onto forever?
Even though each moment with you I spend as if it’s the last,
And think of no other space or time,
Later on I say ‘I want to be with you forever.’
These words will only bring the end closer.
Not closer in a sense that the end will come faster,
Though this can also be true,
But when it does come it is the biggest blow to the heart
I have known.
The hypocrite part of me is showing now,
For even as I write this truth of love,  
I can’t let go of you…

Like to the sun-tanned rocks was his skin;
Gold with a tiny shade of gray.
Like to the curling moss clinging to the trunks of oaks
Was his wise beard.
Here we see a spirit of the river.
This Free Spirit, as old and wise as the boulders
That shape curves in the waters,
And yet as young and fresh as the newborn dragonflies
That fly through the air and between trees.
Here we see a spirit,
One whose lips were shaped in a constant smile,
One whose lungs evoked constant laughter,
One who never ceased to love those around him,
Nor cease to love himself.
Here is a Free Spirit,
Now in the next world,
Playing paddle ball on the beach.
Here is a Free Spirit,
At peace and smiling.

*This poem is dedicated to my dear friend Daniel Free Spirit, who passed away last week. Though the river will never be the same without his playful self there, his spirit is in the water, the rocks, the sand, and the trees. I will always greet his spirit with a kiss to the wind. Rest in peace my friend.