Summer is
dancing leaves,
whispering breeze,
flowing creeks,

Summer is
endless skies,
clear nights,
flickering flames,

Summer is
sweet music,
campfire laughs,
warm friendship,

Summer is
long road trips,
western destinations,
adventures ahead,

Summer is
waking in the morning,
watching the sunrise,
loving until sun set.

In every noise there is a silence,
as every road has its bumps,
every light has its darkness,
for darkness isn't constantly bad,
light is equal to darkness,
just as silence is to noise,
we are equal to others,
so what difference does it make,
some are silence,
some are noise,
we need both,
and in the the end both need us.

All the Beautiful things,
Make me feel like I have wings,
Even on a stormy day,
When all words are hard to say,
The wings still lift me to the sky,
Higher than a bird can fly,
So I can see all these things,
And that is when I start to sing,
But these things are forgotten,
Just like some worn out cotton,
Even though these things exist,
People cross them off the list,
Soon no one will care,
What these things have to share,
All who knew of these things,
Now act like greedy kings,
But there is still a little hope,
For people to climb up the rope,
And see all the beautiful things,
And appreciate what this world brings.

So many memories from this life
And some will be forgotten.

"A picture's worth a thousand words,"
Some say, and so it's true.
A picture is a freeze in time;
A word, that can't be spoken.

A picture is a little seawater,
Held still in a jar,
While the sea continues on,
Moving, changing constantly.

Pictures are too clear sometimes--
Too harsh, revealing details
We left blurred in our minds.

When I traveled to Rainbow lane
In a far off dream,
I saw a daisy,
the daisy was kissed by the gentile sun,
growing a bit each day,
On sad days the daisy drooped,
and the cloud's tears drizzled upon the daisy,
but sunny days always fallowed those damp days,
the flower smiled once again
and every evening the flower slept
in a soft bed of hay,
awaiting the morning sun.

Looking into the large bathroom mirror
Before the bath
I catch a glimpse, a flash of something
A darkened area of discoloration
Almost as if some future dead thing now inhabits me:
A too old cut of meat turned a familiar greenish hue
Dead corpse waiting to sprout
A glaze eyed figure in the haunted house.
The spot may reveal itself on the face,
Or along a shoulder or arm. Just for a second.
Looking again, it was only my imagination.
The infamous man who dug up graves
To take parts of the bodies, spoke of a woman's body,
That it flushed red where he began to take off
A part of it, by cutting it.
Even that dead for a week body knew
Something violent was being done to it
And stories abound of the still-growing hair, fingernails..
Not just haunted tales to scare children
It seems a little bit of death resides in the living
And a touch of aliveness remains even in death:
The boundaries of when we are transformed
Into house of wax characters
Are never as clear as medical textbooks imply.

Beech trees like cathedral pillars soar
To vaulted ceilings oozing dapple-green,
Where twinkling sunlight, filtering to the floor
Dilutes the dusky darkness in between.

A concert hall, acoustically tuned
To amplify each tremorous touch of stick
On wood, where silent magic is cocooned,
Responding to the scuffled tap and tick

From scrunching undergrowth, where dusty death
And dried decay seep back to nature’s store,
To resuscitate with pungent earthy breath
The spirit of the leafy forest floor.