vision so vital
to all a poet is;
silent beauty whispers
its miracles only
to those listening.

the poet cursed
with eyes and ears
the clamor of
a living, dying world
inundates
their soul

finding refuge
from the deluge
in a quiet stream of stanzas

never realizing the blessing
of the eye of the poet

until all the words have dried

Gathering self for
the morning's journey into
today's mystery.

A love for music and words
so deeply stained
in your soul
that all could see
your life's blood
coloring the brick wall
you had painted
so that any artist
who made you stop
the tatting and applaud
could leave their autograph.
Not that you'd exclude
the hangers-on and wanna-be's
from the stage.
That would not be kind.
But you'd get that distant look
as your hands would keep
stitching, knotting, tying off
until the talent showed up.
The hands needled and weaved
without pause;
Only a shift in focus
let the musician or poet know
that they indeed were heard.

Your words at once
lovely and incisive,
inobtrusively lethal
when you chose to create;
pointed as the tatting needles
and strung together
as thoughtfully, carefully
and beautifully as
table runners and doilies.

Too few remember
your dedication to
your coffeehouse,
how you bled
paycheck after paycheck
to keep a stage lit
to keep the magic
of a new discovery
who would soon become a new friend.

It was a hole in the wall,
a converted brick storefront
on a nondescript main street
of a small Florida city.
It lit the lives
of many who needed
a place to bare their souls.
It...
and you...
were great.

each quiet night
a sieve
sorting what's kept
and discarded

shiny straight hair
sky-blue eyes
lips made to cradle mine
shoulders strong yet delicate
******* supple and ripe
tapered waist, flared hips
legs finely turned
by a master carver
feet to be worshiped

all perfect pieces
never fleshed out
into Woman

when a young Ghost
is more substantial
than an old man,
the living must accede
to the un-dead child

Still trying to write;
anything worth doing is
worth doing badly.