I hear the piano playing softly
pulling me from these rutted plains
into a moist green meadow
a vision of a flowing brook down the hill
makes me believe the words of the Prophet:
“Your old men will dream dreams, your young men will see visions.”
yes, I am old, but I see and feel the rising gentle treble notes
lighten my leaded limbs
awaken my spirit
and ****** me into the realms.
It is the touch and glide of the pianist’s fingers
across the ivory skin of the keys
that transports me
in the waning hours of this day.
How sweet it is!

I am broken
bent and misshapen
sad and lonely
dark side of the moon
not caught in undercurrents
but submerged in a bog
oxygen depleted.

Oh what a pitiful state
I’m embarrassed by myself
not s’pose to be like this
people need me to be upbeat and bright
not in darkness but in light
good for a laugh or a smile
wanna be with me a while
but this mournful me
like a salty dead sea
they’d rather not
I don’t blame them
I don’t even wanna be with me.

It’s dark outside
thunder storm rolling in
just perfect for my mood
I wanna thunder out loud!
Ridiculous huh?

Ha, oh what a putz!
Writing it all down like this
makes me want to laugh
at this oh so pitiful me.

I feel better already.
And here you are reading this
what a pure beautiful soul you are
obliging me by listening.

Now you can laugh!

Have a good day. 😊

I am bowed by the weight of bad news
tentacles of evil
creep in to wrap around me
like a dark cocoon
at mixed intervals each day.

Oh how I need love!
It is the only power greater
than the clouds dripping, pouring upon us.

The burning candle
its flickering flame
in the green glass
speak life to me
life within
beyond the reach
of threats and fear.

I bow to the light.

Love
love and its green flame
capture my attention
I adore it
and throw off the cloak of darkness.

Here I stand
now free
and open
in love.

This long month
lingers
unwilling to loose its deadly grip.

Or is it because there is still a flower to bloom
its magenta glory
to wash away
or dilute
the sadness
of this month’s decaying days?

A poem written of my pain
frees me of its chains.
Writing is the poet’s kiss
goodbye to darkness
and hello to bliss.

His ample graying beard
nearly covers crinkled flesh
his eyes focus on the stars
that surround him
his hat with its spangled band
bent slightly down in front
seems to say: I am traveler of Earth.

I wonder what transcendence
dances behind those eyes
slowly moving like Zorba,
arms out gently waving,
an eagle in flight.

Like the old man
I want to bear witness to the universe
in the wave of my mind
to give flight to words
infiltrate, expand and release them
and maybe figure out my small part
in the great mystery.

There he sits head bowed in sleep
leaning south on the weathered wooden bench
too tired to take another step.
He dreams of a dark broken-masted ship
wobbling in the water
nowhere to go
yet an amber light from the inner gloom
makes him wonder
if there is hope for a voyage
for another journey.

But beneath the dank scene
is a lingering certainty
he’s stuck here
stranded in this sad moment.