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 Sep 2014 Fred Kinard
Ash Grey
You are watching everything I do.
You make sure I repeat the words; your words.
I'm your mouthpiece.
Your ballerina.
If I wanted the fame and glory,
Then I will deal.

You are my Svengali
Watch as I dance and dance,
Never realizing...
I didn't stand a chance.

I now know
That I am a puppet
In my very own show.
 Jul 2014 Fred Kinard
Bella Anima
Yes
We can never be together forever
But during those times
When we were together
We built this room in our hearts
That are meant for each other
And it will always remain there
No matter what happens
We can be apart for years
And that room will still be there
If you ever need me
You can run to the room
And escape
I'll be there.
It'll be our secret escape.
Finding ways to cope with the emptiness.
The breeze is forceful, but not stiff,
it is the tropical storm's long lasting,
Arthur's lingering kiss goodbye,
(like the ones taken and given at airports and train stations,
volatile, wild passionate)
the breeze is anything but stiff,
it flexes, gusts, whipping sleeves,
coffee coolant excellent

the waves are rollicking,
revealing their white underwear,
but wise sailors say no thanks,
the bay pure, no vessels surface contaminant this morning

the sun apologizes for its yesterday absence,
claiming the aquifer cried out very thirsty,
so it took July Fourth off,
but now the water table rising,
the sand colored soil dark, rich, wet,
the grass cleaner, greener,
but the lawn, branch littered,
the wounded of the weather wars

the sun, a bit embarrased by his absence,
waits patiently for that odd fellow
by that dock, in that chair solitary,
to do his best poetic explanation well enough,
so that all summer rainy days will be
past and future forgiven

and the odd fellow taps and tends
to the living crowd surrounding him once again,
recalling he once wrote of leaves frothy waving
like cappuccino foam, and was that not
years ago and how could that be?

though the atmosphere is modest agitated,
the poets heart now, leavened and levitated,
for rain must have its due day,
purposeful, somber, serious, endless repeating,
(some say cleansing, but not he)

laughing at himself,
outdoors he writes
differently,
lighter than air, crafting careful
a single sonnet of suntan lotion odors,
and natural songs of bass drums in ear thrum,
and one thought alone,
criss crosses repeatedly,
yes, that one,
"wish you were here"

and he goes inside to get fresh coffee,
greet the woman sweaty fresh from yoga.
she delayed, the ferry captains paying obeisance
to the self same breeze,

but the seagull observer,
stands in place of the odd fellow's guard and watch,
during his temporary absence,
bulkhead posted, cawing in his stead and on his stand,
in seagullese,
which the poet speaks oh so well,
mantra chanting the poets
and the breeze's refrain too,
*wish you were here
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