Searching through my mind
for anything I fear to say.
I have spent thirty-five years
of my life tracking down
my fears,
cornering the slippery ones
and facing the fearsome feral ones.
The few secrets I keep
are no longer for my sake,
but are kept to spare others.
Even those,
I have aired to a few,
close and close-mouthed friends
who hold my trust
as sacred as I hold theirs.
To keep what
hard-earned sanity I have,
I need to keep facing myself,
and stare the evil within me
square in the eyes.

The thing I fear most today
is my arrogance...
my arrogance that there is nothing left to fear.

In the heavy silence
of a gathered throng,
he stood before us,
asking us to reach
toward whatever we believed
in soul-bound silence,
and ask the Universe
the most audacious wish
we held most dear.
Spirit in the room with us
absorbed all ambient sound.
I closed my eyes,
beseeched the
Great Un-understood
to prove, to show me
It exists.  Show me
that I pray not to
a ceiling, clouds, the vapors
of overheated faith.
The quietude which followed
stilled my rushing blood
within my ears, behind my eyes
as one by one, the family
chosen, not born
over agonizing years
appeared to me, smiling,
extending their heart's embrace
to cradle me with arms
still felt today.  My friends,
*my God speaks love
through your creations,
and the love you create
feeds whatever Gods there are.

Just another morning
unwilling bones
crack their way out of bed
begging for caffeine
to wash down
a heaping bowl
of matte-gray sameness.

A voice may open doors to corridors,
dusty and untraveled creaking floors
which lead to vast and unlit recessed rooms,
shut down tight, their vacancy assumed.
Should you have the curiosity
to follow, know you this: the voice will be
your unrelenting guide, compelling you
through portals from until now you withdrew.
The voice will still the recoil of your mind
and weave within your thoughts and intertwine
into a past and present tapestry
of dreams and fears spun with realities.
Colored with your rapture, tears you spill;
the cloth is yours, do with it what you will.

Opened Frye's Paving
Company...specializing
in good intentions.

Because recycled
themes keep showing up, guess
I'm a green poet.

You
run your(selves)
foaming
over imperfect
jagged
boulders
water
healing, abrading,
breaking me
into round
handfuls of
careful heft,
scattered along
freshly carved
sandy bends
(where more
than a few are
said to have
struck gold),
waiting for
wanderers
to seek a stone
that fits
and skip it
onetwothreefourfivesixdang
across peaceful you
calming as we 
luxuriate,
spread out,
slow the flow
inevitable
inexorable
loss of us
both into
impassive
sea

Scent of hyacinth
in *** fills the living room
with shackled springtime.

from unlikely size
(breadth depth mass) words
slice pummel caress
nothing is sacred
but love and feeling

precisely
               ;so

Strolling, wistful, through a thousand lives,
across the chasmed centuries gone past,
he calls her name; it never quite arrives
to fall upon her ear.  Just at the last,
she leaves the hall, or shutters windows closed.
The fading echoes rebound, fall, despair
upon the careless earth, alone who knows
how many times he's haunted up her stairs
and stood before her door, unwilling hand
hung limply at his side. The heavy years
passed by them both again; he hadn't planned
that they would not meet. This chance disappears  
to speak the truth he knows she knows as well;
two ancient souls in broken bodies dwell.

Two ancient souls in broken bodies dwell,
a karmic double-helix twists through time.
They spiral 'round, attracted and repelled
by cosmic force, the space between defined
as two arms' lengths apart. Their fingertips
will brush by chance; the spark that generates
ignites the kindling lust, the heated lips
which speak the wildfire words of love. The fates
dictate the places, times where their paths cross;
circumstances, consequences feed
the choices made.  They've chosen fire, the loss
of reason, stoking starving naked need,
dance with abandon, passion, without pride;
they trip light-years fantastic side by side.

They trip light-years fantastic side by side.
The pas de deux began in ancient court
of some small city-state.  He is a knight
sent by his Queen, a diplomatic sort
of mission.  At a dinner hosted by
the local King, the knight, while taking in
who might be helpful or a hindrance spies
a shaken mane of gold, blue eyes within
her stunning face, struck slack with ennui
until she meets his eyes.  An eyebrow lifts,
a corner of her mouth curls up, unseen
by all save the old man beside.  He shifts,
and stands to pound his staff. The hall is still;
bound by an angered mage's curs'ed spell

Bound by an angered mage's curs'ed spell:
"Your burning gaze, Sir Knight...your smile, milass;
returned. You want each other?  Very well!
So mote it be; I'll have it come to pass.
She will be linked to you, eternally
yours, to have, to hold and never love;
to consummate and quench your lust will be
your death. And you shall lust, by Jove above!
I hereby mate your everlasting souls;
condemn you with a love like Hades' fires,
passion's heat incinerates you whole.
You'll take him, child, and **** him with desire.
You'll die for her; she'll bring you to her knees
across uncharted lands, bedragoned seas."

Across uncharted lands, bedragoned seas
uncounted years of wandering, he seeks
asylum from the memory of her eyes.
The softest skin, most gently blushing cheeks,
wildest fingers raking skin from back,
ever-changing hips which ****** and thrash;
the tavern *****, the courtesan, all lack
whatever power it would take to smash
his crushing need.  An aching pilgrimage,
life spent in shameless chase to slake the lust
imposed by jealous wizard in his rage.
Now weak and old, he walks alone through dust
and sandstorm, seeking solace, final rest
in desert's scalding carborundum breath

In desert's scalding carborundum breath
she oversees construction of her tomb.
Her father started it; upon his death,
she left the mage to build the solemn room
of memory. The waves of slaves pour sweat
in rivers onto stones, their muscles scream
and ripple in the undulating heat.
Mirage becomes a staggering man, unseen
by all but her. She mounts and rides to bring
some water, some relief.  When their eyes meet,
their souls enmesh, their spirits start to sing,
his failing body falls about her feet.
They're found again, and still there's no release;
not even end of life can bring surcease.

Not even end of life can bring surcease;
she lived another twenty years beyond.
His final glance of longing gave no peace,
but chained her in the everlasting bond
of arcane condemnation. Her ****** heart
is pierced by passing seconds, every one
a blunted needle, mildly poisoned dart
not strong enough to stop her pulse's run.
The mage's gift to her: the agony
of life remembering her lover's kiss,
then a death too short to set her free.
It sends her toward another fatal tryst,
spun round again the universe's width;
their love a measured minuet with death.

Their love a measured minuet with death,
a dance with destiny.  They wake again
to unfamiliar bodies, unknown paths
meandering across the haunted plain
of time.  A muddy pasture, half a million
blissful stoners join in raucous song:
"...and you make it hard". Among the hills run
****** lovers who can do no wrong,
all sharing bodies, needles 'til the smack
runs out. Her shaking arms strapped 'cross his chest;
he huddles close, awaiting the next stack
of Methadone. He shivers; breathes his last.
She cries and rocks his body, they will spoon
throughout the summer's thundered afternoon.

Throughout the summer's thundered afternoon
as heavy clouds erupt on thirsty soil,
cooler air meets skin on fire, a boon
to Magdalene and lover.  The sweet oil
washes off, the rain obscures the sound
of marching feet.  Centurions approach
and ****** him from her side. "So now you're found
beside this one, whose last ride gave us such
an evil time.  We strung him up, but now
his body's gone, and you were seen beside
the tomb. You'll die just as he did, and how."
She watched another man be crucified.
Supported by her love, he passed in peace
suspended in expectant spring's embrace.

Suspended in expectant spring's embrace,
the royal courtyard at Versailles in bloom
is laid out for the party.  Every face
is rouged, each powdered wig precisely groomed.
The hundred soldiers stand down, raise a toast,
Vive le roi!  One teasing courtier
seduces a queen's guard to leave his post.
Behind a hedge, they make love unaware
of peasants, women milling through the gate
in search of bread and royal blood, not cake.
He runs to save the Queen, and seals his fate;
the mob will **** for revolution's sake.
The oaks a silent witness to his doom
in autumn colors, reds and golds festooned.

In autumn colors, reds and golds festooned,
the twin moons rise and set, reflecting sun
upon the biodomes.  Earth shines down, ruined
by man's neglect, what could not be undone.
The population by law zero sum;
resource conservation held above
the joy of new life.  Parents here must come
to know the anguish of requited love.
She bears his child; they knew too well the chance
they took.  The court will force a choice be made:
the father or the child. A tear, a glance
as he's locked out. She watches as he fades
in cryogenic punishment, life lashed
to winter's icy shackles holding fast.

To winter's icy shackles holding fast
her soul, she proffers prayer, slogs through the sleet
toward her cloistered cell.  One chilling blast
wraps habit 'round her, knocks her off her feet.
The heavy, sodden cloth, the wind prevents
her gaining purchase on the frozen ground.
From monastery cot, the monk could sense
distress.  In thin burnoose he dashed and found
her, cold as stone, yet breathing; swept her up
and rushed her to the hearth.  His warm embrace
brings on familiar heat.  Their pasts stirred up,
relived, decision made within a trace:
"'Tis best this time we live, and never start."
Their minds attuned, yet cleft by broken heart.

Their minds attuned, yet cleft by broken heart;
the aching need grows stronger day by day.
He tends her failing health without regard
to duty, vows.  Her weak voice strains to say,
"I will be gone before you this time. Hear
me out; this may be what we need to break
our curse.  Stay with me as my time grows near;
and love me as the Reaper comes to take
my soul, and finish with me after I
have left.  God will forgive sins we'll commit
for man alone has ****** us.  We must try
or curse ourselves, continue to submit
to endless pain, remain just as we are:
connected, blessed, and doomed to be apart."

Connected, blessed, and doomed to be apart,
they cling to every moment here and now;
the priceless beating of her failing heart,
his passions roil out in unending flow.
He gazes deep in her eternal eyes
as they glaze over, looking past his face
into the hollow stare of death.  She lies
suspended between life and time and space,
to hear an old, familiar voice sound in
her ears.  "To dance with death before him
as you rut...how clever!  Most astounding
that you'd carry out this futile whim.
He dies; you'll live, just as the curse defines;
strolling, wistful, through a thousand lives."

Strolling, wistful, through a thousand lives
Two ancient souls in broken bodies dwell.
They trip light-years fantastic side by side
Bound by an angered mage's curs'ed spell.
Across uncharted lands, bedragoned seas,
In desert's scalding carborundum breath
Not even end of life can bring surcease;
Their love a measured minuet with death.
Throughout the summer's thundered afternoon,
Suspended in expectant spring's embrace,
In autumn colors, reds and golds festooned,
To winter's icy shackles holding fast;
Their minds attuned, yet cleft by broken heart:
Connected, blessed, and doomed to be apart.

In wistful sojourn through a thousand lives,
across the chasmed centuries gone past,
he calls her name; it never quite arrives
to fall upon her ear.  Just at the last,
she leaves the hall, or shutters windows closed.
The fading echoes rebound, fall, despair
upon the careless ground, alone who knows
how many times he's haunted up her stairs
and stood before her door, unwilling hand
hung limply at his side. The heavy years
passed by them both again; he hadn't planned
that they would not meet. This chance disappears  
to speak the truth they're cursed to know so well;
two ancient souls in broken bodies dwell.

Two ancient souls in broken bodies dwell,
a karmic double-helix twists through time.
They spiral 'round, attracted and repelled
by cosmic force, the space between defined
as two arms' lengths apart. Their fingertips
will brush by chance; the spark that generates
ignites the kindling lust, the heated lips
which speak the wildfire words of love. The fates
dictate the places, times their paths will cross;
circumstances, consequences feed
the choices made.  They've chosen fire, the loss
of reason, stoking starving naked need,
dance with abandon, passion, absent pride;
they trip light-years fantastic side by side.

They trip light-years fantastic side by side.
The pas de deux began in ancient court
of a small city-state.  He is a knight
sent by his Queen, a diplomatic sort
of mission.  At a banquet hosted by
the local King, the knight, while taking in
who might be helpful or a hindrance spies
a shaken mane of gold, blue eyes within
her stunning face, a mask of ennui
until she meets his eyes.  An eyebrow lifts,
a corner of her mouth curls up, unseen
by all save the old man beside.  He shifts,
and stands to pound his staff. The hall is still;
bound by an angered mage's curs'ed spell

Bound by an angered mage's curs'ed spell:
"Your burning gaze, Sir Knight...your smile, milass;
returned. You want each other?  Very well!
So mote it be; I'll have it come to pass.
She will be linked to you, eternally
yours, to have, to hold and never love;
to consummate and quench your lust will be
your death. And you shall lust, by Jove above!
I hereby mate your everlasting souls;
condemn you with a love like Hades' fires,
passion's heat incinerates you whole.
You'll take him, child, and **** him with desire.
You'll die for her; she'll draw you to her knees
across uncharted lands, bedragoned seas."

Across uncharted lands, bedragoned seas
uncounted years of wandering, he seeks
asylum from the memory of her eyes.
The softest skin, most gently blushing cheeks,
wildest fingers raking skin from back,
ever-changing hips which ****** and thrash;
the tavern *****, the courtesan, all lack
whatever power it would take to smash
his crushing need.  An aching pilgrimage,
life spent in shameless chase to slake the lust
imposed by jealous wizard in his rage.
Now weak and old, he walks alone through dust
and sandstorm, seeking solace, final rest
in desert's scalding carborundum breath

In desert's scalding carborundum breath
she oversees construction of her tomb.
Her father started it; upon his death,
she left the mage to build the solemn room
of memory. The waves of slaves pour sweat
in rivers onto stones, their muscles scream
and ripple in the undulating heat.
Mirage becomes a staggering man, unseen
by all but she. She mounts and rides to bring
some water, some relief.  When their eyes meet,
their souls enmesh, their spirits start to sing,
his failing body falls about her feet.
They're found again, and still there's no release; 
not even end of life can bring surcease.

Not even end of life can bring surcease;
she lived another twenty years beyond.
His final gaze of longing gave no peace,
but chained her in the everlasting bond
of arcane condemnation. Her ****** heart
is pierced by passing seconds, every one
a blunted needle, mildly poisoned dart
not strong enough to stop her pulse's run.
The mage's gift to her: the agony
of life remembering her lover's kiss,
then a death too short to set her free.
It sends her toward another fatal tryst,
spun round again the universe's width;
their love a measured minuet with death.

Their love a measured minuet with death,
a dance with destiny.  They wake again
to unfamiliar bodies, unknown paths
meandering across the haunted plain
of time.  A muddy pasture, half a million
blissful stoners join in raucous song:
"...and you make it hard". Among the hills run
****** lovers who can do no wrong,
all sharing bodies, needles 'til the smack
runs out. Her shaking arms strapped 'cross his chest;
he huddles close, awaiting the next stack
of Methadone. He shivers; breathes his last.
She cries and rocks his body, they will spoon
throughout the summer's thundered afternoon.

Throughout the summer's thundered afternoon
as heavy clouds erupt on thirsty soil,
cooler air meets skin on fire, a boon
to Magdalene and lover.  The sweet oil
washes off, the rain obscures the sound
of marching feet.  Centurions approach
and ****** him from her side. "So now you're found
beside this one, whose last ride gave us such
an evil time.  We strung him up, but now
his body's gone, and you were seen beside
the tomb. You'll die just like he did and how."
She watched another man be crucified.
Supported by her love, in peace he passed
between first breath of spring and winter's last.

Between first breath of spring and winter's last,
the royal courtyard at Versailles in bloom
is laid out for the party.  Every face
is rouged, each powdered wig precisely groomed.
The hundred soldiers stand down, raise a toast,
Vive le roi!  One teasing courtier
seduces a queen's guard to leave his post.
Behind a hedge, they make love unaware
of peasants, women milling through the gate
in search of bread and royal blood, not cake.
He runs to save the Queen, and seals his fate;
the mob will **** for revolution's sake.
The oaks a silent witness to his doom
in autumn colors, reds and golds festooned.

In autumn colors, reds and golds festooned,
the twin moons rise and set, reflecting sun
upon the biodomes.  Earth shines down, ruined
by man's neglect, what could not be undone.
The population by law zero sum;
resource conservation held above
the joy of new life.  Parents here must come
to know the anguish of requited love.
She bears his child; they knew too well the chance
they took.  The court will force a choice be made:
the father or the child. A tear, a glance
as he's locked out. She watches as he fades
in cryogenic punishment, life lashed
to winter's icy shackles holding fast.

To winter's icy shackles holding fast
her soul, she proffers prayer, slogs through the sleet
toward her cloistered cell.  One chilling blast
wraps habit 'round her, knocks her off her feet.
The heavy, sodden cloth, the wind prevents
her gaining purchase on the frozen ground.
From monastery cot, the monk could sense
distress.  In thin burnoose he dashed and found
her, cold as stone, yet breathing; swept her up
and rushed her to the hearth.  His warm embrace
brings on familiar heat.  Their pasts stirred up,
relived, decision made within a trace: 
"'Tis best this time we live, and never start."
Their minds attuned, yet cleft by broken heart.

Their minds attuned, yet cleft by broken heart;
the aching need grows stronger day by day.
He tends her failing health without regard
to duty, vows.  Her weak voice strains to say,
"I will be gone before you this time. Hear
me out; this may be what we need to break
our curse.  Stay with me as my time grows near;
and love me as the Reaper comes to take
my soul, and finish with me after I
have left.  God will forgive sins we'll commit
for man alone has ****** us.  We must try
or curse ourselves, continue to submit
to endless pain, remain just as we are:
connected, blessed, and doomed to be apart."

Connected, blessed, and doomed to be apart,
they cling to every moment here and now;
the priceless beating of her failing heart,
his passions roil out in unending flow.
He gazes deep in her eternal eyes
as they glaze over, looking past his face
into the hollow stare of death.  She lies
suspended between life and time and space,
to hear an old, familiar voice sound in
her ears.  "To dance with death before him
as you rut...how clever!  Most astounding
that you'd carry out this futile whim.
He dies; you'll live, just as the curse defines,
in wistful sojourn through a thousand lives."

In wistful sojourn through a thousand lives 
Two ancient souls in broken bodies dwell.
They trip light-years fantastic side by side
Bound by an angered mage's curs'ed spell.
Across uncharted lands, bedragoned seas,
In desert's scalding carborundum breath
Not even end of life can bring surcease;
Their love a measured minuet with death.
Throughout the summer's thundered afternoon,
Between first breath of spring and winter's last,
In autumn colors, reds and golds festooned,
To winter's icy shackles holding fast;
Their minds attuned, yet cleft by broken heart:
Connected, blessed, and doomed to be apart.

The source of words
is the very source
of human thought.

If we are to under-
stand one another,
we must find the source
of our words.

The sources of
our streams of consciousness
are as varied as nature;
from the highest pinnacles
to the bowels of the earth.
The nature of the sources
matters little.
The highest may be polluted;
the purest flow may come
from the deepest spring.

Recognizing our own source
is essential
when our streams merge.
Our thoughts commingle,
and still remain our own.
In the foaming tumble
over the boulders
of daily living,
it is well to remember
our innermost selves,
like the river,
need the aeration
of an outlet and a
                                few
                            ­           deep
                                                breaths.

On­ce we have come
to our under-
standing,
we need not remain
below those we now
stand under.

(the beauty of words
is the very beauty
of human thought)

I pull back shrouds of memory
and mourn the child who was
and is no more. Now I can see
just how you died; because
innocence, morality
gave up one day (applause).

Strange, I felt but apathy
when I watched you die,
my child, but when you ceased to be,
my eyes were all but dry.
Just yesterday you swore to me
you'd always be alive.

And there you are. You lie in state.
I grieve your passing. See,
no one knows the massive hate
that caused your life to flee.
Perhaps I'll find, as tears abate,
how much of you was me.

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

I came, expecting
I had something deep to write;
I guess I was wrong.

Poems unread for
over twenty years have life;
news at eleven.

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

How to find the words
for a feeling you've never had
and have always missed?

Another evening
darning the hole in my soul
stretched on a dead bulb.

Your words slink around
my legs, purr insistently,
nuzzle at my hand.

Trumpets scream out in
agony for a man too
terrified to speak.

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

You walk across the restaurant, sit down
and fold your legs precisely so your dress
conceals the barest minimum.  Around
your shoulders, silkiest of wraps caress
one side, and wantonly slides off the other
to leave a naked arm spaghetti-strapped,
suggesting what might later be uncovered.
Your eyes meet mine, warm mysteries.  So apt
from what I know of you this point in time.
We speak of writing, theater, and Bach,
mingling voices, counterpoint sublime;
laughing undercurrents as we talk.
I want to say you needn't try so hard;
it hits me you're not trying...you just are.

What works, what doesn't,
what words sing while others croak...
paper balled up, tossed.

Definition of
an American poet:
living a half-mile
from the canyon's cliff, but still
insists he lives on the edge.

Some nights I sieve my
soul for a droplet of light
to know dark's not won.

I've known you only as a quiet child.
So many years in passing spoke your name,
And hearing it would bring a fleeting smile.
I've known you only as a quiet child.

You're now a wife, a mother; all this while
It took for me to stake a father's claim.
I've known you only as a quiet child;
So many years in passing spoke your name.

Compadres gather
around the hearth, rekindling
warmth of memories.

You sneered at me because you thought I'd lied
and stared at me through drunken eyes of pain,
then waved me off as I tried to explain.
You turned away, just shook your head and sighed,
still unconvinced that I had not a clue
where she had gone since I had left her here.
You drove away, your taillights disappeared
into the driving snow, the wind that blew.
The same snow broke your fall as you collapsed,
but couldn't keep your temple from the bruise
that showed up three days later as you lay
in state but not in peace. I think I snapped;
I spoke to you, 'twas Dylan's words I used:
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears I pray.

You sneered at me because you thought I'd lied
and stared at me through drunken eyes of pain,
then waved me off as I tried to explain.
You turned away, just shook your head and sighed,
still unconvinced that I had not a clue
where she had gone since I had left her here.
You drove away, your taillights disappeared
into the driving snow, the wind that blew.
The same snow broke your fall as you collapsed,
but couldn't keep your temple from the bruise
that showed up three days later as you lay
in state but not in peace. I think I snapped;
I spoke to you, 'twas Dylan's words I used:
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears I pray.

Time heals no wounds; hard,
sharp, brittle, leaving shards to
fester and erupt.

There is nothing left;
a voice without an echo.
Thanks to those who've read.

You came back in 1968
from teaching Kenyans
to speak English
to teach Americans
how to see the world.

A nine-year-old boy
was in your fifth-grade class,
precocious, gifted
and quite full of himself
and ignorance.

It was magical, that connection;
the world-wise teacher
and the barely contained
bolt of potential.
It was his only year of school
where he never missed a day
or dropped a class.

Amazing how subtle,
blunt and gentle you were with him,
tapping walls of arrogance
with a wrecking ball,
allowing him to maintain
his structure
while rocking and rebuilding
his foundation.

You saw the boy
who danced on the the tightrope
between genius and insanity...
and quietly fed the jukebox.

He wanted to write;
you gave him Frost and cummings.
He yearned to draw;
you showed him Van Gogh.
He thirsted to learn;
you taught him how
to slake his parched mind.

He left your classroom,
but you continued to teach him.
You still do,
nearly fifty years later.

The last time he saw you,
he hurt you,
in that casual,
caustic way
of the high-school senior.
Still, when his nieces and nephews
with his last name
passed through,
you'd ask them
how he was doing,
and asked them to tell him
to stop in, or call.

He never did,
so he's now reduced
to offering words
you would have loved to read
in their full futility
telling you
that you
are
immortal.

We travel sine waves
of lifetimes; on certain
orbital planes, we meet.
From all our times around,
we think we are
essentially
                                   alone.

Once in an eternity,
we get to wander a while
with a fellow traveler,
a re-cycled companion.
Sometimes for a lifetime...
mostly for a some-time.

Hold the sometimes close
and treasure them;
they are the proof
that we truly

never

travel alone.

Released a demon
to a friend; a dragon slain
and a voice regained.

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.

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.

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

She's cuddled beside me
in the front seat of the truck
as we watch the moon
rippled upon the waves,
bundled beneath the comforter
which once covered our bed.
She's so, so warm...
last week we'd have begged for fever
to fog the windows as we slept.
At least tonight's kinder;
we can crack the windows with the doors locked
so the warm, gentle breeze
can run its fingers through our hair
and remind us of times
when this was a luxury.
Another two days
before the check comes in;
we'll get her a couple good meals.
God knows she deserves that.

For better, for worse,
richer, poorer...
we both grew up poor,
knew what buzz-saw hunger felt like.
We got to know the better
for a few years,
did okay even when
we both got sick the first time.
The cancer, though...
that was the beginning of the end
of better.
We both lived through it,
if you want to call
what we do now living.
Nothing special about us;
the story's been told a
couple million times
in the last five or six years.
You hear about the before
and the after...
but rarely, the during
as the slow juggling of
one or two bills
becomes more and more manic
as one by one
another is added
until
         inevitably
one by one
they're
dropped.
The choices are easier for a while
as you're pulled down Maslow's pyramid;
food or internet,
a roof over your head
or paying the power bill late.
Thought we'd actually make it when
I got the second job;
then she lost hers
and the unemployment ran out.
You know, I worked two full-time jobs
and played out weekends
when I was 20,
and lasted almost a year
until I fell over.
You know...
I'm not 20 anymore.
I just couldn't do it for very long.
That's when the choices got tough.
Gas to get to work...or food.
Medicine...or food.
Rent...or food.
One morning, I opened my eyes
with my heart thrashing,
a salmon in the bear's jaws.
Disability payments the same
as two weeks' take home pay.
Last time I checked,
there's still four weeks and a third
in a month.
The landlady did what she could
as long as she could.
She's got bills to juggle, too.
We found a nice little efficiency.
We found a nice room.
We found a crack-house motel.
We found it better to find
a parking spot for the truck,
and here we are.
The rent's only the cost of the plate
and a few gallons of gas;
in the words of the rental agents, cozy,
with the best view the fuel will allow.
We huddle, helpless
to douse the fire in her body,
no place to take her
and no way to get her there
until the check comes
in a couple of days.
I'd have gladly died
to spare her this;
now, that'd be the coward's way.
I pray that my heart outlives her
so that she doesn't die alone
in the front seat of a God-forsaken truck
on a deserted beach
in what once
was Paradise.

what fragments lay in stone and silent wait
for sunrise creeping stealthily through dark
to back-light marbled forms who knew Petrarch
truncated arms which strain to touch and sate
a cold and calculated yearning carved
in everlasting porous rock compressed
as otherworldly beauty barely dressed
they stand exposed and gorgeous, proud yet starved
to feast on passion's fragments etched inside
by sculptors long since sated, fed and dead
who pounded love with hammer, chisel, sweat
from abstract concept into sanctified
emotion pulsing from unbreathing stone;
stories bled from humankind alone

Enough deceiving.
Stand upright and face yourself.
Change what needs changing.

Tell me what is most real to you today;
what makes your heart beat faster, moves your soul.
Put what completes your world out on display.

Your triumphs and your struggles on your Way,
or virtues in another to extol.
Tell me what is most real to you today.

Your cleverness, your wit come out to play
or cleansing tears, for life will take its toll.
Put what completes your life out on display.

Please, kindly rid your writings of cliche
for simple recitation leaves me cold.
Tell me what is most real to you today.

I'm eager to hear what you have to say,
so whisper in italics, shout in bold;
put what completes your world out on display.

And never let your muse become dismayed
by words from uninspired online trolls.
Tell me what is most real to you today;
put what completes your world out on display.

Bumblebee senryu;
stubby, plump in the middle,
stinger at the end.

Ghosts
©1984 Joel M. Frye


There are ghosts upon the platform
Standing cold and still and pale,
There are ghosts upon the platform
Waiting by that long-gone rail.

A woman on a suitcase,
The porter in mid-stride;
Two kids, an old man watching
For that train they'll never ride.

“Hey, Grampa, where's old 99?”
“She won't come through again.
The interstate's a-rolling
Where we used to catch the train.”

There are ghosts upon the platform
Standing cold and still and pale,
There are ghosts upon the platform
Waiting by that long-gone rail.

The steel canal, it nailed the lid
On Mr. Clinton's dream.
The iron horse died of drowning
Underneath an asphalt stream.

There are ghosts upon the platform
Standing cold and still and pale,
There are ghosts upon the platform
Waiting by that long-gone rail.

“Hey, Grampa, where's old 99?”
“She won't come through again.
Six-ninety goes a-rolling
Where we used to catch the train.”

There are ghosts upon the platform
Standing cold and still and pale,
There are ghosts upon the platform
Waiting by that long-gone rail.

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.

Thanks to all who read
my work, who shared and followed.
Made an old heart glad.

A gorgeous sunrise
makes me glad for this lifetime,
strikes me stone grateful.

There are so few true
men of Christ around; God alone
knows why Bob left us.