winter's whisper shouts
louder than the full-throated
bellow of springtime.

Stolen holy day
made sacred by human love,
Spirit transcendent.

Winter winds entwine,
I blush as they embrace me;
naked, intimate.

Peace of mind brings my
muse nothing but stagnation;
learn to write happy.

all of you
no more than
zeroes and ones
electronic bits
sharing flesh and bones.

Classically structured,
profoundly spiritual;
poems are temples.

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

Would that I'd be as
kind and gentle to myself
as I am to you.

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.

How far away Earth
appears when perfection is
barely sufficient.

Did you not grasp life
so hard that you strangled all
the joy out of it?

add nothing to a
blank page of electrons; scent
of beauty wafts up

Casting my craft out
upon creation's shallows;
pray to pull in art.

don't know if I'm here
seeking some splendiferous
solace or just sleep

Can't explain the peace
when paradise's cold enough
for sweats and hot soup.

Firm, sweet and juicy;
sunrise, red and gold in hand.
Sunshine fuzziness.

She left, for she knew
I would carry the burden,
if it buried me.

five moments
in nine years
i felt like a poet

Give me a moment
and seventeen syllables;
I will move your world.

Have spent three years
of mornings
listening to
voices of reason,
observation,
quiet humor,
a spot of civility
amid a scorching desert
of screaming,
argumentative
bloviators.

A concept
created in reason
was great
while it lasted.

Every day is once again too precious;
a journey, step by step of thirteen years
evaporates to salt like drying tears.
The salt not wasted, rubbed in wounds so specious,
wrapped in bandaged memory, bound tight
and bloodless by layers of adhesive time.
A wish, a prayer, a moment from my prime
when all could be accomplished, all was light.
Each morning wakens heavy, trudges on
Promethius's odyssey to night
still hoping rolling stones may be diverted.
Reality re-dawns; all hope is gone.
The uphill climb remains to make aright
what gifts that born in grace became perverted.

in whispered words
you sing along with
the song of my heart

unconcerned with tune
or harmony
a simple chorus
in unison

the reverb swells
as the presence
multiplies
you and i and love;
with Spirit
adding contrabass
more felt than heard

First of all,
do not say there is
no instruction manual.
There is no single,
definitive one;
but there are
a myriad of choices.
It may take years
to find the one that
makes any sense at all.
Next, understand
that the parts you begin with
will not resemble
the finished product in the least.
As you proceed,
tab A will rarely
if ever
fit neatly into slot B.
Adjustments and approximations
are your best friends.
Remember that there are
always resources available;
friends will be willing
to lend a hand,
and customer service lines
for expanded knowledge
depend upon the manual chosen.
Finally...
work with the full knowledge
beforehand that
you will be the last to know
when you are done.

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

A line begins,
is drawn,
ends.
An endless,
infinite number
of waypoints
between.
Lines leave no legacy;
a small black streak
to be erased.

The last of my line,
I leave no legacy;
my poems are my children

Tchaikovsky heard
the bipolar duality
of his nation
Rimsky-Korsakov
the mediator
between two
implacable forces
Stravinsky captured perfectly
the strident cacophony
of revolution
Shostakovich
screamed his love
for all his people
in the face of a dictator

can you not hear their music?

so little
of life
matters,
yet

all of it
lovely

he sleeps by day
or not at all
as night expands
his life grows small

Odd that all there is
and ever has been would fall away,
leaving us nothings.

reaching deep within
words evaporate, leaving
desiccated soul

Is there therapy
enough for a whole nation
to heal its schism?

Once upon a rhyme I had belief
my life contained some wisdom to be shared
with those around me.  So my soul was bared
to spare my readers pain, perhaps some grief,
or offer up examples good and bad.
Foot by foot the path was measured out
upon a trail of no uncertain doubt
until the sacred truth would be forbade.
On walking down this road none cared to take
the woods throw shadows, light and dark alike
upon new mornings, nights of memories.
This too, this too shall pass.  On this I'll stake
what life remains, in hope in time to strike
a trail through all the vague uncertainties.

I am an old man now whose time has passed,
the youthful heart of fire has long burnt out.
Pray that a needful message shared will last.

My generation grew on love and held on fast
to their ideals of change to come about.
I am an old man now whose time has passed.

The lessons born on voices from the past
ignored as if we never had been taught.
Pray that a needful message shared will last.

Where anger blooms in fire, stones are cast,
the looting steals all probity, no doubt.
I am an old man now whose time has passed.

My heart grows glad when people join en masse
to turn around what had once come to naught.
Pray that a needful message shared will last.

To those whose lifetimes have been heard at last:
a quiet word will win where fails a shout.
I am an old man now whose time has passed.
Pray that a needful message shared will last.

I'm performing
exploratory surgery;
plunging a scalpel
in the interstice
between my discontent
and my gratitude.

to look inside
even the most
even-handed among us
and bring light
to the darkest spaces
where the brothers
fear and anger
still reside

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

Brutal truth is the
last resort of a best friend
or a patriot.

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

Do we not carry
the echoes of the only
in every new love?

those rarest times
you leave me
to my silences
i shut the TV off
and i am sure
whenever i go
no music plays

i savor the quiet
as much as
you welcome
the white noise of game shows
which fills the chasm
where your children were

i know as stone fact
that if you go before me
the first thing i will do
after placing
the urn upon the shelf
is turn on the television

promise me
you'll play me a song

Some people change their
colors and fall away; a
few are evergreen.

it's been said
that testosterone
is the driving force
behind male creativity

so as one is less able
to get a bone
one is less able
to write a poem?

Though while she sang, she sank in water deep,
A longing flowing song laced with despair,
And so the solemn willow learned to weep.

A woman lost in feminine mystique,
By madness tortured, far beyond repair,
And as she sang, she sank in water deep.

Gifting rosemary, remembrance to keep,
Too late to be redeemed by nuns and prayer,
And so the solemn willow learned to weep.

For Hamlet's hand, the price was much to steep,
An unrequited love the fatal snare,
And while she sang, she sank in water deep.

Bound in earthly plots, contrived deceit,
Deep, unearned sadness, more than she could bear,
And so the solemn willow learned to weep.

Fragile flowers surround her final sleep.
The river danced in her long, golden hair,
But while she sang, she sank in water deep,
And so the solemn willow learned to weep.