Green leaves at the window submarine my room.
A drift of wind, then still,
This waiting,  haikued day.

All the journeys in the world are waiting too,
For our telling and retelling, rummaging for words
To pleasingly adorn, but pointedly, the page;
Voices for another life to hear, maybe, and find their road.

Till all the storms of self subside,
Our ghost voices left to breathe from shades,                                                                
And whisper on a wind that always knew the lines,
As others ride the chattering of their days.

So come with me, to silence. Stay.
- There are no words for truths of Being With.
The million little brush strokes of the willows -
They simply say: just dance today.

For MWF
Summer 2014

Alot to be said for naked existence.
Alot to be unsaid, for the same.
I consume the moment. Ravenous
Beyond all appetite. Beyond all time.
Beginner's mind to the end

I am new to this, and will always be.

Do you know the words that tell, can hit
The apple with a thin and twisting bolt
Of truth? The Gessler'd page - a sneer
Of whiteness waiting for the fall, the fail
Of wish that aims too low too high.  

You have no choice. Breath cannot hold for long.
Release release release the words
Are flying - not yours now. To **** or save
The wide-eyed boy. Your own
And William's son. The world,
The only one.

I can feel me rushing forwards into night.
Not just a phrase - a horror truth.
The choices made, decades buried now
Exhume themselves with bony fingers, dirt
Under the nails.
And crawl towards my life.

I loved you then, I love you now. But now
The days are speaking consequence of lust,
That no amount of dulling wine can lay.
No thoughtful poems exorcise from night to light.
The shadows of the wrong are on
The windows of my house.

I asked the cat if it had a muzzle.
It gave me a look. Got off my lap.
Came back and sat
In profile.

Just staring. Gazing. And waggling
A foot. It's what I do. And what I'm
Supposed to do Is just this. Now.
Sometimes I sing.

You can hear me.

Sometimes.

Watching the rain. Is it for the first time in my life?
Little squalls across the road.
A patch of time.
A single note
Before the glass doors open,
And in to buy.  But now, what do I need?