the roaring wind whistles a polar me,
opposing freely,
a hushful respite,
inside today,
silent me.

sitting in dreams,
stuck in sleeping bags,
the night before,
before the morning snagged,
my lucid want,
my lucid haunt.

outside, the wind and sun,
blow fiercely through,
the dead dried leaves,
the dusty dung,
brown, unsung,
chaos flying,
above the roof,
around the fence,
at pasture’s hooves,
one last breath spent.

again here lie,
the dreams that drift,
the dreams that die,
sounding out February's cry,
singing her last goodbye.

while the trance settles,
and untangles,
and I, sitting quiet,
witnessing the bendy brambles.

~Lana Maree Haas

How dare you laugh at my faults when you're the epitome of human failure?

Beetles laid a nest of onion seeds
sprouting generations of wiggling tear drops
all metallic green with a daffodil hunger --
maybe it was spring's cold to feed

-cec

( Sonnet )*

At the end of night she bathes in light,
We tussle in the warmth of morning,
The blankets and she are of sea foam
And found shells, whispering lost ocean
Words.  Our bed is a raft, drifting aloft,

The coffee is brewing with mellow sun,
Her smiles, filling my silly, giddy mug.
Soon, we walk to the pebbled beach,
Her hair is waving at the friendly seas,
Gulls are circling in the moving skies

Reeling with the slow, slipping tides
And I skip stones with her as our feet
Sink in the milk of morning sands—
Must we be off to Dublin town?

I gathered all
  the driftwood
of my love
  and built a fire
at high tide
  watching the ocean
rise from the smoke
  in so many eyes.

312

Her—”last Poems”—
Poets—ended—
Silver—perished—with her Tongue—
Not on Record—bubbled other,
Flute—or Woman—
So divine—
Not unto its Summer—Morning
Robin—uttered Half the Tune—
Gushed too free for the Adoring—
From the Anglo-Florentine—
Late—the Praise—
’Tis dull—conferring
On the Head too High to Crown—
Diadem—or Ducal Showing—
Be its Grave—sufficient sign—
Nought—that We—No Poet’s Kinsman—
Suffocate—with easy woe—
What, and if, Ourself a Bridegroom—
Put Her down—in Italy?

Touch, is such a
Fascinating thing.

I always cherish
Bear hugs.

When friends and dear ones
Hug me

They make me
So happy!