The same rose, still ablaze scorching red,  
A ****** from realms yet untread,  
That unfolds upon the ancient, earthen bed—  
But heed the thorn; this way one cannot tread.

Every morning the nightingale sings her song,  
Leaps into melody, ere the day grows long.  
Down the moon’s open eye, once strong,  
To unlock the door, one must belong.

In the quietude, beneath the moon’s aged grace,  
Maybe lies a key forged in shadow,
The sun slides down, lights a candle at a silent pace.  
Who claims this boon, who dares to embrace,  
Must know the rose’s fire, the nightingale’s chase.

My twisted hue
On doorstop eyes
With crystal windows
Drip drop drain
My velvet hair
On tear stained blues
Back bend summer
Screen door warmth
On a cement porch

Ice-hard, cold, yet I endure,
The tales of old city folks
they capture the essence of the place
For the world's embrace I yearn.
Bed beckons, but I resist,
For in the world, my spirit persists

As long as there's flags
the world remains divided
flying at half mast

With flat head shovel, steel tooth rake
Out to do whatever it takes
Nothing you see is that easy
When you're in the mood for life gardening

Aching muscles are for keeps
Patience hides in piles of leaves
Winter, Summer, Spring, or Fall
There's always something going on

With this plot in which I live
Myself, and I, my wife and kids
Pulling teeth like pulling weeds
All in a day of life gardening

Growing up at a steady pace
Equal parts of pleasure, pain
Trying my best to not cave in
With heavy heart and calloused hands

Plowing steady as she goes
Keeping straight my set of rows
Thankful for all my blessings
This daily dose of life gardening

Time is fluid, here

on the plane, we are floating --


in moments of now.

Small on the skyline,
This beautiful ship I’ve launched-
Testing the waters and her seaworthiness.
I stand on shore and strain to see
The sun glint off her sails as they unfurl,
It won’t be long before the horizon
Reaches out and takes her from my sight.

And yet she circles back again,
To the safety of this harbor
Where the ocean gathers calm and still.
But I know the tide is freshening
And the wind is for adventure.
I long to let her glide away but
It hurts too much to open up my fingers,
So I heave and pull on the mooring rope
Striving to keep her next to the pier-
Proud of the way she rides the swells-
Thrilled with the cut of her mainmast-
Excited with visions of where she can go-
Still I’m reluctant to bid her bon voyage.

For I have no ticket - this isn’t my trip,
I’ll have to be happy with postcards
From places mundane and wildly exotic-
Hoping she’s not out at sea too long and
That killer squalls don’t find her.

I’ve built her well - she’s sound and good.
There’s great common sense on the rudder.
The maps are laid out in orderly rows
And her spirit holds steady the sextant.

The tugs on the rope are outdoing my fingers
And I’ve had to begin to let go.
I must save some strength to lift hands in farewell
And keep vision clear through the teardrops.
        ljm