Sun feeds energy
to earth; ninety-three million
miles feels much farther.

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

Brown leaves sway in cold
breeze, which cuts through passers-by
beneath a bleak sun.

woken by hunger;
a void, vacuum leaking tears
seeking fulfillment.
not enough words in the world
or beyond that would suffice

the aftermath of
overload, a mother-lode
of familiar
mines ever so precisely
placed, set, hair-triggered, waiting

almost beautiful
when wrong-footed unwary
questions detonate
lovely plumes of cratered soul
with shrapnel of shattered love

and I'm f l  y   i    n     g   .    .    .     .

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

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

Come, rest your weary body in my arms;
your tattered thoughts rewoven as you sleep.
My spirit wrapped around you, safe and warm.

Cradled up against me, held from harm,
your dreams are free in slumber, still and deep.
Come, rest your weary body in my arms.

Your childlike face protected from the storm
of daily waking nightmares: I will keep
my spirit wrapped around you, safe and warm.

Seductive demons, stealthy in their charms
may bring a restless stirring as they creep;
come, rest your weary body in my arms.

Should you be stung awake by buzzing swarms
of memories, strafing you until you weep,
my spirit's wrapped around you, safe and warm.

The day-to-day may fill you with alarm;
let night sow gentle comfort you may reap.
Come, rest your weary body in my arms;
my spirit wrapped around you, safe and warm.

In the midst of human chaos
we might seek out the beauty
of celestial love.
Can I get an Amen?
A-MEN!

In the midst of celestial love
we might glimpse the power
of the unconquerable human spirit.
Can I get an Awe-women?
AWE-WOMAN!

In the midst of human spirit
we perceive the tenderness
of the eternal human soul.
Can I get an Aww-men?
AWW-MEN!

In the midst of the human soul
we might find jealousy and hatred,
the sources of human conflicts.
Can I get an Ahh-men?
Ahh.  Men.

In the midst of human conflicts
we might find the love and soul
to disagree in harmony.

Can I get an A-men?

I pray my muse will bear a heavy weight,
as cantilevered dreams of fifty years
come crumbling down, the poor-grade aggregate
made up of childish vision, youthful fears,
watered gruel of faith, reality
intended to cement what cinder-blocks
of present living I stacked shiftlessly
on half a slab collapses.  Time now mocks
my thoughtless, grandiose designs; its tide
sweeps what I'd have my future hold away
in universal undertow.  Aside
from inspiration, vision, words at play,
my muse has double duty to be borne:
a reason I should wake up every morn.

I gave a child my name one day;
abandoned her in three short years.
Divorce and dreams pulled me away,
but not without regrets or tears.
A lousy father, that I knew; still
wondered as time wound along
if she remembered as she grew
the man who'd sing her favorite song.
One Saturday, a Facebook friend
request reopened memories past.
Acceptance and a message sent;
a chat precise as cutting glass
more than enough to be convinced
of standing. Not heard one word since.

What
           ((holds)) you
to unyielding self?
Petrified
you stone your sins
and still miss the mark;
attempt to beat soul
into healing.

Fool.

Even this
nascent struggle
to understand
casts another rock.

Would you lobotomize...
****** a stick
into your eye socket
to see more clearly?

Suffering is
in the resistance;
you know,
and do not accept
grace in the hands
easing you toward
the gentle current
of Spirit
washing around you.

Why?

Entombed by need
to atone,
you cannot roll
the rock aside alone.
Stop asking for
"more weight",
Giles Corey...
you are a fearsome man
standing upright.

I have been taught
by those much wiser
and more experienced
that if I am disturbed,
I have in some way
caused the disturbance.
Whether by ignorance
or inaction,
intent or mistake.
I am responsible
for the actions
I take; no one
can "make me"
do or feel anything.

Practice does not make perfect;
practice makes permanent.
Be ****** careful, then,
what you practice.

Can't see the pathways through the crush
as forest's canopy makes night;
an overgrowth of underbrush
prevents new sprouts from reaching light.
Some cleansing clearing is in store
creating space to feed new life
by burning down what heretofore
had nourished nature.  Now it's rife
with rotted stands of misshaped growth
untended, harboring disease.
I strike the match. The fire is both
destroyer, bringer of a peace;
the aftermath of smoldering soul
with ashen truths to make me whole.

Begin with the meat.
Venison, if you seek authenticity;
if you were raised white,
ground beef will do.
The mirapoix can be purchased
if you no longer till
the back yard.
Potatoes and peas and corn
as well.  No matter
what the commercials say,
frozen tastes nothing like
fresh from the earth.
If Grandfather did not
milk the cow and churn the butter,
saute the vegetables and meat
in half a stick.
Flour was bought and traded for
for many generations;
just open the bag and add a quarter cup.
Beef stock is such a
pain in the *** to make.
Safe, sterile boxes
with tamper-proof caps
so much more convenient.
Let the soup simmer for
what seems to be a lifetime,
then open two cans
of hominy, drain them,
and add to the ***,
letting the smell
summon the memories
of whole families.
Adjust the seasoning,
sweetening the broth
with a tear or two
before serving.

I have no wisdom
of my own; borrowed insight,
hindsight of many.

One cat chirps;
one rumbles.
I am surrounded
with contentment.

beauty bright
burns the soul's retina
leaving blind spots
blotches on the vision
of what burns
behind the beauty

look
        away
from the dazzling
surface

feel the fusion
of mind and spirit
exploding
just beneath

generating
intense light
radiating

out through
ever-expanding
infinite space
between love
and being

never look into
the eyes of the sun;
look beyond them

I have a steel trap
mind; easily triggered, shut
down painfully tight.

it's morning, and your arm cradles my head
gently, after such a long and torrid night

i roll over to watch you sleep

your eyes half-lidded, unfocused,
unmoving, unconscious

tenderly, i move your arm;
you do not stir.
slowly, i raise up on one arm
the better to see you my dear
delicately stroke your breast,
your ******, proud, *****, unaware

trace down with my fingertips
your firm abs, now rippling with
your steady, slow breathing
and lower, to your loose
and flaccid thighs which
flashed their strength on
the dance floor last night,
now so unresistant to my touch

your calves, (my breath catches)
what i noticed first
about you, smooth yet well-turned
and solid, what made me notice
and want you

the last drink i bought you
hit you hard
and still works your mind
as i speak softly in your ear
and watch your eyes respond
to what i say to you for later

Shall I take you now?

All in good time, my dear
All in good time.

"and who might you be?"
he asked in a voice
hahdah than a newenglandbed

"just a fellow poet who was read
your poems in fifth grade
and fell in love with words"

"a )poet(?  why of all most the amazing
things on earth would you
want to do that?"

"it never was a want"

clothed only in electrons
insinuating beneath my skin
hard-wired into random memories
she radiates a cathode glow
scanning, scanning through
my screen-shot eyes
her pulsating presence
at such a frequency
as to appear solid
tinkling giggles
broadcast over my headset
watching my groping hand
finding only illusion

The ocean is love.
The tide comes in, I tumble
in wave after wave.
The tide goes out, I tremble,
fear it will never return.

shattered hands, ribboned skin
blood-soaked, sliding down
the unforgiving edges
of ungraspable beauty
     keep on reaching, kid...
     that's what heaven's for

I extend a hand,
a smile to Death, and bid him
comfort in my soul.

Since my father died
so young, always unreasoned
fear of dark, the end.

I have my father's
heart; it will fail me, just as
his stopped that winter.

He worked when he could
(not often at the end) to
keep family fed.

I have my father's
heart; I work for food, shelter
to its final beat.

I say in half-jest
I work to eat better cat
food in retirement.

The half-truth unsaid
is I work so my wife might
eat in retirement.

I pray I have my
father's heart; lived so bravely
and died so alone.

Sticks and stones may break
my bones, but the names I call
myself will **** me.

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.

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.

precious moments starved
gleaned from hungry hours
quenching thirsty thoughts
parched too dry for words
whistling arid winds
desiccated soul
\propped\ against a cactus
full of watered life
canteen close at hand
felt no need to drink
(walking past the past
sipping from your wells)
only two more days
until baptism in
these sacred salted seas.

the amount of light
expressed equals how much of
our dark we explore

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

Have to dig up some
grave humor once in a while
to know I'm alive.

hope the thing with feathers
and I a featherless biped

Carrying a lamp;
seeking other wanderers
lost in quests for truth.

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

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

I saw my future at the Dollar Town
today.  She shuffled, bent, a Sisyphus
who rolled her cart uphill on level ground,
resisting rollback grinding her to dust.
Perhaps fifteen or twenty years beyond
my age, or pushing ninety.  Hard for me
to tell; she labored so, with eyes despon-
ent, weight upon her arms, each step a plea.
I hobbled past her, grateful for a cart
nearby to hold me up.  The air-conditioned
blast a respite from the sweltered heat;
I panted softly, let my pounding heart
subside, inhaled a soothing breath, and sent
a prayer she'd make it home, get off her feet.

When I am still, it's not that I'm
pacific or content; for while
it may appear a quiet time,
with lips graced with a gentle smile,
a darkening meditation fills
the open space where demons roam
and angels hover for the ****;
I'm just about to write a poem.

The Reaper may or may not be our friend,
depends on how much pain needs be reduced.
In time each one of us will meet our end;
we live as if we've not been introduced.

Poets do not
make a living;
they make a life.

Speak these words aloud;
hear the creak of
the rusted pump
seeking fresh flow
from a depleted source.

We're talking
put up a hand
to stop a hurricane
futile here,
folks.
Two days past trying
while listening
to Hermine's tails
lashing at the windows,
I reach deep
into a well of emptiness
for a lost bucket
of words
filled with dusted
dried feelings,
the rope frayed
to snapping.
A thirst to heal
will lead me to drill
elsewhere,
thirsting for the tears
commingling with rain,
the tears that burst
from a stone-crag heart
in artesian splendor.

reaching deep within
words evaporate, leaving
desiccated soul

Life goes barefoot, and
we walk in fear, wait for the
other shoe to drop.

Only half as smart as I think I am, and half as dumb as I look.

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.

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

A trickle of time
melts its way down
a mountain of perhaps.
Other trickles
from others' potentials
merge and mingle;
become a stream
which grows as it gathers.
Soon, soon,
time no longer
is guided by stone
but carves it,
carves unwilling rock
into fissures.
Earth itself is rent
by what might have been;
time gathers the debris
and carries it downstream,
deep and slow and wide.
The canyon it cut
is deep and wide as well,
and twists and turns
with branches and dead ends.
Our lives are but a shout into the void,
echoes which carry and fade
along canyon walls,
unless and until
an ear downstream
might hear them.
Perhaps they will;
perhaps not.
The river and canyon both
are fickle;
hold their secrets close.
The only potential
once here

is to shout
until no voice is left.

Poetry has been
and is marginalia
of a life well-lived.

You deserve more than
a few quick dashes of ink,
glimpse of waterfall,
unrolled upon papyrus
and hung to be overlooked,

English contorted
into Japanese styling.
Especially when
you take the trio of you,
me, myself and I to task,

speaking to yourselves
in such a Zen-like manner:
Get out of my Way!
The ten thousand things vanish,
Ego shivers in the void.

Cold, hard wind of truth
knifes through armored illusion,
shurikens spun from
insomnimaniacal
nights, throwing words at the stars.

Sleep and find your peace,
you three, dream of wives and salt,
the whole Lot of you.
Remember you're a pillar
of Muse's community.

I am cradled by
the very thought of your thoughts;
our shared humanity.