Why not dig faster
As if you hadn't time
The water may be rising
But why not sit and rhyme

Sometimes echoes
And smiles abound
Forgetting yourself
Isn't worth
what was found

A bird to rise
And bags beneath
And strain to beg for
Just release

Wheat and hazel
May make thee
An orchard merry
Or feet to flee

Somber silence
One prays for
Shallow living
To pay the store

I am living
Inside out
Humble endings
For the rout

Shaking tremblings
lovely shapes
Air connecting
What to sate

Ponder meanings
In moss and stone
As debtors mingle
At your home

Where did we go wrong
I sometimes ask the Sun
But answers are long given
And hardly won

Fear not there haunted eyes,
a young girl, broken,
behind them lies.

Today is the yesterday that you'll regret throwing away tomorrow.

This is fact not fiction

Malta in the second war a target of both Berlin and Rome
For months upon this burnt brown isle the vicious bombs rained down
Then came the time in Mosta town a miracle occured
A bomb went through the historic dome of Mosta's famous church
Yes, through the dome it hammered, hit the wall, rolled out the door
But god was kindly on that day as the bomb lay on the floor
600 souls were in that church on the day the bomb burst through
Not a single person hurt and so the miracle grew
I don't believe in god, they had someone on their side
Without that famous miracle 600 might have died
I have been in that church seen the patch in the famous dome
Seen the scar above the door, the damage the bomb had done
Tis now a place of peace the famous Mosta Dome
But I have been in there my friends and seen the replica bomb

Thus was the miracle of Mosta

Communication
the most important thread
holding together every different fabric
sewn into this garment called success
each piece by each personality
contributed by all humankind
but it has frayed, it will snap
since communication breakdown
has spilled all over the incomplete

It is a declaration of cowardice.
I put my pen down and
Step away slowly
[Defusing the letter bomb].
They don't always turn the
Other sheet, you know.

Sometimes the poem
Writes back.

Measure our nights
by the sighs of the moon.
Count the stars
till we run out of room.
Lie here beside me
'neath the comforting sky.
Make me a pillow
of your warming thighs.
Bring my roar to your lips
as my salt you sip.
Twice kissed silken cries
your wakened delight.
Measure our nights
by slumbering sighs.

r ~ 5/2/14