If I had the right to choose

What I would and wouldn't do

What I would do, I'd do with you

Forever by my side

Then again in the reverse

What I wouldn't do of course

Is make loves fabric tattered and torn

With you as my wife

This life we live is a waiting room
Some wait to long, some leave to soon
What magazines do you have strewn
All about your waiting room

The daily grind of The New York Times?
Or do you prefer The Outdoor Life
The magazines that you display
Tell more of you than you could say

Does Better Homes And Gardens fill your life
While Rolling Stones consumes your night
You have a choice in what you read
And a lot of that is what you'll be

So is Popular Science what you cling to?
Or is Christian Alliance your holding glue
And would it change your point of view
If you knew what comes after...
The Waiting Room

the moon is round tonight
covered by the grayish elongated sky
it shimmers a little light
containing smokes to remember
As people busy on the streets,
buildings so tall,
along apartments, &
a convenience store,
moving cars from left to right.
But tonight
is just incredible,
long lasting,
beautiful, &
breath taking,


moon*  *to gape at night.

Just as my physical remains are returned to the soil , my soul is born anew , cast across this very ocean . Be at ease , remain watchful , for as the return of living water at high tide parlayed with everlasting love , patience and fidelity , the seashore remaining vigilant with each breaker for intimacies nurture and embrace . The tearful void of hopelessness and despair fulfilled ! You will find me at the crest of every wave ..

You would find me occupied with tomorrows weather , flat pickin' guitar , a recipe for minced meat pie , the color of the moon and the stars in the sky ..
A grandson changing everyday , granddaughter posing for a picture , turnips in the garden , the chickens in the yard , junk mail in the box , a Persimmon tree up the road ..
Horehound candy , pitch black coffee , toasted rye bread with blueberry jelly...
Dirt roads , antique barns and tractors , cattle on the move and a plug of tobacco .

Her charms are wine and bread bestowed upon a ravenous man , weathered hands capable of wickedness having received their porcelain salvation  , strands of perfumed silk kindle a passionate immediacy , a bonfire called into night skies with embers in search of eternity ..

As the vultures cautiously defend their broken gift , a panic stricken ,  innocent creature lays mortally wounded , another tribute to suburban encroachment , killers quite fittingly cloaked in orange attire , warning the civilized world of their presence , roam unchecked throughout Georgia's woodlands .
Paper doll wannabe commandos , indignantly evoke prayer and 'god given rights' , esteem their kind as protectors of the environment . An obvious cover for blood thirst and killing instinct , blanketing raw , scheming , murderous culpabilities ..

through his window
he could see the oak planted by his grandfather
or his father, or his, however many greats
that would be

few obstinate leaves lingered
like refugees who missed a hegira
to the promised land, or to the
red, russet heap along
the stone wall

some of its ancient roots
had wearied of earth's deep dark  
and now streaked across the yard
silent serpents laying in wait
for another eve

he wanted to write
of his lifelong arboreal companion
but his fingers had adopted a stiff grotesque pose
some forgotten fall, when the leaves
had been long in their leaving

words were there, waiting,
perched behind his eyes, then sinking
in some grave fashion to his tongue,
though to whom would they speak?

nobody remained
who read his verse
still the words kept lining up
not quite knocking on the door
demanding exit to a flat
white world

as his tired eyes rested
on the tree, the words rumbled louder,
until they pleaded, who planted you,
where are they now, and when
will we join them...?