My dreams have always
been writer's dreams: colorful,
vivid, ironic,

visionary and
heavy with foreshadowing.
My early twenties

a sodden nightmare,
drinking away love, children,
family and home.

In dream of chaos,
Spirit I had not yet met
led me down the Way

I had been choosing;
brought me to its granite-cold
game-over ending.

Read my name, saw the
year of birth, but was taken
before I could read

the full final year.
But it began with nineteen.
Waking, shivering,

I could still feel the
achingly frigid tombstone
beneath trembling hands.

Despite the warning,
I carried on as I had,
fearing, ignoring

my destination.
Time was too short in my life
to be concerned with

anything except
living as I ****** well wanted.
Kept suffering deep

and often, wondered
about those friends who shook their heads
at me, and kept theirs.

Came the day when the
wonderful awareness awoke
the Spirit in me

to receive the love
the Universe had flooded,
floated, immersed me

in my entire life,
as I slaked my thirst other
ways. I drank my fill

of freshened water,
the first of many rebirths.
Pulled to solid ground,

slowly by slowly
I stood on my own again,
learning how to live

as the child I was,
adult in years, juvenile
in thought and action.

Sixteen years along
my journey brought me to a
terrifying day:

The thirty-first of 
December, modern era
nineteen ninety-nine.

I went home early,
away from Amateur Night
revelers driving,

and locked myself in,
calling friends and asking them
to call tomorrow.

I watched the ball drop
for the first time in many years...
and cried like a fool.

My Way is not yours,
and can never be.  My time
since is borrowed time;

I sign off on the
loan every morning I'm here.
Eastern spirit has

burnished my tarnished
soul, shining not removing
the dents and scratches

it's picked up during
the trip. Why Oriental
forms? You might have guessed.


Why write of Spirit
and of flesh?  Both are with me
as I carry on.

I must share borrowed
time for it to have meaning.
Blessed I am, having
found a place, a peaceful spot
and people with which to share.

Oriental poems
whet my muse's appetites;
true amuse bouchés.

The rumbling cat circles the chair,
wondering what wakes me
at this hour. A reassuring stroke
or two between lines,
and she puddles beside
in tail-wrapped satisfaction.
Heir to a hundred insignificant sufferings
which scurry and gnaw
at the underpinnings of slumber,
half-awake and fumbling for gratitude,
I choose enough small misery to write.
Don't scare up ambition to rhyme
or scan, or make myself look good,
or put lipstick on the false smile
of swinish apathy wallowing muddily.
Cold, clammy soil suits and soothes my mood.
There is a hunger howling
in hours dark with early morning
for a gentle scratch behind my ears,
a soft hand welcoming my nuzzle;
a nesting ground of warm worn cloth
smelling of home and family
where I can pad its perimeter,
curl into myself
and sleep.

My last senryu I
wrote yesterday...seventeen
syllables...oh no....

of this i cannot speak
the long days alone
at my tattered plywood desk
seeking words   seeking relief
seeking absolvement
a soul long past confession
any noticeable color
washed out by age

of this i cannot speak
dream of all
i once could dream of
when a song
and a glance
could enchant an enchantress.
over last night's leftovers
my right hand reaches down
to grasp
what my mind will not
that time and place has passed

of this i cannot speak**
most days
there is thankfulness
for what i have
and a shrug
for what i have no longer
days like these
gratitude is a formality
given an abrupt nod
and dismissed

We lust to defile
the same wily wanton muse
of words, you and I.
There's no jealousy involved;
she'll take us all in at once.

Walking the tight wire, 
the fine line between what is 
and what never was.

the shape changes
depending upon
perspective;
from the bottom,
an oak leaf,
from one side a butterfly,
from the other a fist.
they have pictures
in color and in sepia
which speak to them
with different interpretations.
one sees a scar,
one sees growth.
they all agree
     it's a part of me
     it doesn't belong to me
     it came from they don't know where.
it's been cut
it's been shot
it's been exposed to radiation
it's been poisoned
it will not die

aha!
rasputin lives in my right lung!

the cup of my palm
begs for the curve of your calves;
pulsing thigh muscles
striding confidently past
the years that separate us.

There's a book out there
with my name on it today;
a published poet.

Turkey is spot-on;
guess I found my calling as
a master baster.

A hard lesson learned
by proud, independent man:
For help, one must ask.

Stephen King was not
trapped for a week in a car
by a rabid dog.

A boning knife was found behind the bed
to keep my older brother's hands at bay.
The words would not be heard, so none were said.

The little brother, trying to hide, played dead
beneath her blankets in a certain way;
a boning knife was found behind her bed.

She didn't fight me off before, instead
she let me, never spoke about my play.
The words would not be heard, so none were said.

The father, puking till his eyes were red:
"When I come to, there will be hell to pay."
A boning knife was found behind her bed.

He came out, knife in hand.  To her, I pled,
"Momma, please...".  Her look caused me to stay;
the words would not be heard, so none were said.

My daughter's plea was ringing in my head;
my father's hands still linger to this day.
A boning knife was found behind her bed,
the words would not be heard, so none were said.

So cliche to say
"your whole future is before you"
when we are rooted
in the soul of your childhood.
Better we should wish you
safe journey, safe home
whenever you might
find your way back.

There is a deep honor befriending an elder;
returning the blessings that we've been bestowed.
Also a frisson of fear we have held, for
we pray we are gifted with honor, not owed .

A life lived
as an oxymoron:
sociopath
with a conscience.

leave me your moments spent
without thinking, staring into space
while on hold or waiting in line
for your slush of cold coffee

all that time pulsing away
from an opened artery
of your life

drop your minutes wasted
listening sort of
to the drivel of an almost friend
into the jar held below my sign
"starving for attention - please help"

leave me your moments spent
without thinking
of me:

i'll have all the time in the world

as time tumbles by
eroding its rocky bed
of eternity
in the shallows
we create
pools of stillness
capturing handfuls
to refresh us

on cold January mornings
the pools ice-olate
into frozen moments
we sculpt into memories
until the reality
of springtime
puddles them
drip by drop
back into the current

I had a friend;
we journeyed life together.
Down a dark and winding road
we made our merry way.
The trail was long,
with many holes and pitfalls.
We took our bumps and bruises
and we swallowed our dismay.

I had a friend;
we spent our evening hours
playing our guitars and singing
songs both old and new.
And at night's end
we'd shake our hands and promise
our friendship would endure
and we would always see it through

     But time has a mystic power,
     it turns saplings into trees;
     and its river made a canyon -
     separates my friend and me.

I had a friend;
helped me through tribulations,
and I would be there when
he needed company.
But life goes on,
and our two trails soon parted;
left nothing for each other
but songs and a memory.

    For time has a mystic power,
    it turns saplings into trees;
    and its river made a canyon -
    separates my friend and me.

That friend I had,
out of touch for more than twenty years...
I saw him yesterday
in a little place downtown.
His looks had changed,
perhaps a little paler
in his softly padded bed
with his friends all hangin' round.

     For time has a mystic power,
     it turns saplings into trees;
     and its river made a canyon -
     separates my friend and me.

     For time has a mystic power,
     it turns saplings into trees;
     and its river made a canyon -
     separates my friend and me.

Music with values
added; not formulaic,
mathematical.

Most times, it's hearing silence in the space,
Echoes in between my Spirit's breaths.
Distinctive voice reminds me of my place
In torn cacophony of Planet Earth.
True to form, I listen; do not hear
All messages I'm given in the day.
Teachers crossing paths both far and near
Each answering my questions in their way.
Perhaps a quiet moment will suffice,
Remembering that Spirit will provide
A peace too great to go unrecognized.
Yes, words are thought or whispered, an aside;
Earnest quest for guidance to the sky
Remembering to listen for replies.

walk over jagged
unrocks of sidewalk
sinewed hand of
shattered being
in suited business
grasping 
gaspingly
at precipice of curb
desperate
for purchase
leverage back
into living
slithering slowly
d o 
      w
          n
into survival
noone sees
the agony
crawling upright
on both
patent leather
feet

When days will pass without a written word
or weeks go by and no responses read,
don't think that any interest is dead.
It usually means that life itself has lured
me with a hefty chunk of "in the now",
and set the hidden hook deep in my jaw,
the friction of avoidance rubbing raw
my better nature.  Losing sight of how
acceptance ends the struggle, swimming hard
against the current wears me paper-thin.
Exhausted, humbled, docile, being reeled in,
the battle ends.  Surrender's healing starts;
a loving hand removes the hook and sets
me on my way, no strings and no regrets.

Was it something that I told her,
was it something that I said?
Cause it's only gotten colder;
you can skate upon the bed.

Though waves of heat rise from her,
timid hug is met with shove.
I'm only getting number
under covers than above.

May I present the envoy from the great state of Anhedonia.

My heart beats quiet
tonight, a peaceful moment;
it's stopped stuttering.

there once never was
a man gifted, ungifted
who now lives as both

Come, take my hand and walk with me
into the blinding darkness of
unspoken fear, unfelt, unseen.
I cannot hope that you would love
the journey, only pray that you
will stay to love the company
you've kept.  Your touch, your comfort through
the night which rises every day,
and darkens daily will be needed.
Fevered fear enflames my skin,
constricts my throat, a breathless plea
to stop the strangling from within.
The Spirit uses you as peace
to strengthen me for what I face.

Electorate now educated by
and through the auspices of internet,
decisions carrying a world of weight
are swayed by Facebook posts. Small wonder why
the grins and gigged brains voted into power
don't need to think about vox populi;
anonymous vox dei spins the lies
into their pseudo-truth six times an hour.
What passes now for discourse or debate
are statuses, conflicting rumors checked
unscrupulously for what shreds of fact
they may contain. God help the candidate
who actually has a plan to put in play;
the way that can be spoken's not the way.

Too late for farm living;
must tend to my sustenance
in the spare bedroom.

An old salt sits alone at end of dock,
to watch the ships home safely from the sea.
Not that his weather-beaten lips would ever talk
of voyages his mind takes, odysseys
the younger sailor he once was signed on,
where friendships sailed into romantic ports
of call.  Now safely berthed, he casts a fond
remembrance back on battling violent storms,
a roller-coaster ride on cresting waves
of lust and anger.  Something near a smile
will almost crease one side of sun-scorched face;
a glimpse of paradise sails 'cross the miles.
Young sirens beckon, call him to his past;
he'll walk home safely, lashed unto the mast.

breaking my body
against the blunt instrument
of your tethered soul

Hiring me to repair
and prepare the old rental
for you to occupy
after you sold our house,
I found the collection
of carefully selected snowglobes
bought for you over years
and the original copy
of my gift poem
left with the tenant's trash.

there is a vast peace
in the respite
of disease;
aware both of
infinite time
and finite life,
giving notice to
what endures,
what passes.
each moment hangs
glowing in
the sunset of eternity,
perfect,
ripe and juicy
as the strawberry
growing
from the cliff.
tiger of living above,
chasm of death below,
hanging by a
breaking branch
with red-stained lips.

Fields full of spring;
mea maxima tulpa.
April in Holland.

Burnt-tasting breaths hang
near the back end of my throat;
toxic good riddance.

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

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

To live life in intensive clarity
you must prepare yourself a lonely house.
A friend or three, of course. Perhaps a spouse
or three, as well, though even they won't see
how deep the silent spring that feeds your soul.
Intensity, in truth, is rarely loud
or boastful; more like one who's been allowed
perspective broad enough to see the whole.
Many come to visit, few will stay.
Some believe one lesson will suffice
until they understand in full the price,
the cost it takes to find and walk your Way.
For wisdom's earned not doing as you're bid
by those who knew much better than you did.

My heart is filled with overwhelming peace
in spite of what the doctor's tests reveal;
a sense of love and caring will not cease.

For one whose life had been one of dis-ease,
where dreams died off, existence seemed unreal,
my heart is filled with overwhelming peace.

There's been no letting go, no caged release
of pent-up terror, prayers, nor appeals.
A sense of love and caring will not cease.

The demons fought for years have been appeased,
their hellish hounds no longer nip my heels.
My heart is filled with overwhelming peace.

Embraced by those whom I expected least;
misunderstandings cauterized and healed.
A sense of love and caring will not cease.

My chosen family, listen, if you please:
Concerned I am, but fear's not what I feel.
My heart is filled with overwhelming peace;
a sense of love and caring will not cease.

A phrase or two will kite against the wind,
seek headway in an unseen battle royal.
Exhausted metaphors need shelter, find
their respite in strong meter, rhyme unspoiled.
For those who found no haven, weak of wing,
it mattered not how lovely were the bones
that lay in piles: undone and crumbling,
not fleshed out; picked apart to die alone.

Inspired by unblessed muse, the writing comes
and goes.  Would she take flight, then thermal words
would dip and soar, careen about like some
unfettered raptor, finding smaller birds
to rip from sky with unrelenting aim:
the tiny, straining sentences unheard.

if there is nothing human
about humanity
what's to save

it's not the pandemic
that keeps us separate
it's the dehumanization
and the demonization
the demoralization
we heap upon each other

no poet
can survive the lack
of friction
between their lives
and the lives of others

this artificial suspension
of everyday life
wrapping ourselves
in tight-lipped tolerance
or inflamed outrage
does nothing
but extend the isolation

the flimsy rope bridges
that cross the chasms
of derision
sway in the winds
of anarchy

those still able
and are willing
to communicate


must.

I waited under a waning moon
for a night that did not start
Beneath the pale
of exacting twilight
I ripped open my chest
and held out my heart

The darkness surrounding
consuming its light 
drumming of heartbeats

an encrypted call
to a lover,
a predator 
no one at all

But you called to me

You asked me to answer your prayers
and in the coming night
I wait for you
under the pale moon light

a silvery silence which sounds
of a hopeful despair
Which now knows of the who
but not the where

Silvery is the moon
the silence I can not bear
am I to be frowned upon
even as I am aware
I am here
You are there

the weighted distance counts 
the miles aloud...
I'm not allowed to seek you out,
must stay suspended in my lunar shroud

I felt your every heart beat
Like footsteps upon the floor
I even felt the finality 
when you decided to close the door
The moon was shielded by
clouds that night

She, like me, couldn't stand to see
the agony of your fight, your flight
Torn between survival
and what could never be
breathing just for revival

Silly children...
play with mirrors
as if we were doors,
portals to other times.
Theirs are night-games,
indulged in dark
imagination.
As if my hand-held cousin,
carried upstairs
walking backwards
could show the faces
of husbands or death.

Really.
We show only what we are shown.

Of course, in our years,
we have seen husbands
and deaths.

The braver child
will call upon us
in necromatic glee,
invoking the shade
of Mary Worth
to appear through us.
A cosmic crap-shoot,
depending much upon
Mary's mood
that particular night.
Three times
they call her name
before me,
hope they see her,
pray they don't.

I have been shown many
a Mary's death...

many a child's, too.

It always comes back
to sleepless dark mornings,
waking long before
sleep is through,
clutching at seconds
until I have to leave.

What should have been
will never be,
banished to the south wing
of the dungeon.
Such a refined cruelty
to chain my memory
one chamber over
from your playroom,
where you give and take
your pleasures...
which many years ago
too briefly
were mine alone.

What brings peace must first
break down resistance, comfort;
old habits die hard.

Begin with the end.
It ended with a quiet conversation,
after you had thrown me out
and I spent a weekend
on call at work,
or sleeping in the warehouse.
You said okay, come home...
I said no,
I was tired.
Tired of your need to control me,
tired of having to hide my art
because I married a writer
who came to her senses
and got a real job.
I should have seen it sooner;
even though when times were good,
they were wonderful.
Never had a better shotgun
on the road trips.
We had years of heartache and bliss,
wishing for the early days
when we sat for hours
discussing what kept us alive
in quiet conversations,
the end planted
in the beginning.