And now it's here

In rippling current

Spread in waves and moving torrent

Soft wind spreading

Slowly moving

Pollen

Pollen

Yellow

Floating

germinating

Strains

O­f disaster

Breeding swollen fruits of death

By the bushel

By the basket

Breathe

Breathe

Breathe

Breed

Winter has come

And

The rain grows colder

The days are short

And

Darkness comes to dinner

Cold surf

Cold wind

But tomorrow

The sun

Will be back again

Bark at the moon and bite at the sky
Moon and fire lighting your eyes
Wild at heart
Wild in body
Clothed in smoke
On the fourth of July
Concussions booming
Powder burning
Sparks flying
A dogs hearts yearning
Chasing rockets, dragons and Lions
Brown muscled beast
Born to baying
Work 'Til dawn
Then lay down yawning
And dream the dream
Of the hunting dog tired

I have since been accused
Of stealing words from my muse
Thoughts and strains
Not my own
Rhythm and rhyme
Verse and poem
Stolen from the purse of a muse?
I am speechless

I drive by to see if he is out on the patio

or by the bench in the sun

Statued in stony white

Taking in some rays

Getting warmth while he can

If he is

I stop in  to have a smoke

Time is short so I don't stay long

Just a brief stay

Like the spring breeze

Just long enough to have been there

And then gone

There isn't much left to him these days

A man once

But

The pain meds have him in a fog most of the time

Fading in and out

Clouded like mist

But he still has spirit

One last fight

He's holding out now for St. Paddy's day

He heard that there's a party at a nearby club

And he plans on being there

I hope he makes it

If he does

I'll be his ride

And we'll have

One last day of being Irish

He was betrayed
In the end
By the Gods of his youth
His prophecy
Ended
By the only deities he knew
Parents
The infant's almighty
The Gods of small children
Hanging like
The mobile of life
Over them
It is all they born to
But
Bruised fists floated
Like angry storm clouds
Over Seas of battered emotions
Sweet red lips
Buttered with coated  lies
Whispered
And Whispered
Into the wind
And in the end
He was left all alone
And on his own cross
Was forsaken
By his God

Oh, bread of mine
So enticing
Warm yeast rising
Brown crust darkening
Tender white
And steaming hot
From the oven
Comes my desire
Waves of heat
Barely seen
Yet Still waving
Pouring off of
Fresh cut slices
There you sit
My soft warm pleasure
Hot and waiting for my butter