God granted me a gentle friend
to grieve my growing with me.
Of all the gifts in all the world,
He chose the best to give me.

God granted me a gentle friend
to cheer the changes coming;
to add the music to the words,
the chording with the strumming.

God granted me a gentle friend,
and when the doubts came creeping,
he sent me friends and friends again.
My heart was filled to weeping.

God granted me some gentle friends
who love me in my anger.
They hear the faith within the fire -
the care within the clangor.

God granted me some gentle friends
who show me they respect me.
They share the man they see in me;
I learn how to accept me.

God granted me some gentle friends,
each visit a thanks-giving.
Each friend a vision of Himself
to guide me in my living.

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

Compression stockings
bring back memories of faires,
shaping iron jaws,
prithee tell me, good gentles,
wouldst thou have me play a tune?

pieces of me in
the shredder; home wherever
the trash bin collects

We've heard the tales of eyes and smiles a hundred times before,
but for this one I write about, I'll have to add one more.
Though songs of faces say so much, they cannot tell the all,
so I shall sing of one who wears the golden waterfall.

The signals of her hatred for this world of little lies
is registered within the tell-tale candor of her eyes.
On this plane of human falsehood, such honesty stands tall,
and so I sing of one who wears the golden waterfall.

The poetry of words alone has not the grace to give
her passion to discover all the love she wants to live.
A warmth too great to be contained in her body, largely small
flows through the hair of she who wears the golden waterfall.

So from aside I watch, a half-read book upon her shelf
as she throws light upon the unkind mirror of her self
and wonders if the things she seeks will listen to her call -
look!  See them run to one who wears the golden waterfall.

Ray of clarity
breaks through my clouded vision
and warms my spirit.

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.

such an odd duck,
this wounded dove
named love
flying about
searching for soft perch
and safe shelter
yet choosing
the cold warmth
of deadly currents
running through
high-tension wires.

To be sentenced
to a year and a day
of life
because one must
because others have tied
their lives to you
because you have
the only job

to plod forward in faith
alone
because the thing with feathers
was crushed beneath
the branches
when its perch fell

is to exist;

it is good to live once again,
to feel the soul branch out
and green,
and hear hope
chirping at the feeder
re-hung in faith.

She lives to love a man who once could sing
his way into the hearts of many crowds;
once strong enough to pick up anything
with either back or mind.  Her man had wowed
the critics with his skill with a guitar,
with songs that brought salt water to the eyes
and lyric laughter.  Could have been a star,
connections came and left, not realized.
The cracking voice now breaking hearts instead,
the left hand hanging, useless, by his side.
His back is bent, his heart is weak, his head
is filled with possibilities untried.
What's left of him can barely take her hand...
and yet...
                 and yet, she lives to love her man.

I'm moved to heights I've never seen before;
thrown into chaos, being carried through,
I come to love Great Spirit more and more.

Remembering when waking was a chore,
now gracious spring each moment is renewed.
I'm moved to heights I've never seen before.

Awaken into mystery; what's in store?
To harvest strength for what I need to do,
I come to love Great Spirit more and more.

My grasp outstrips my reach; what's heaven for
if not to give my life direction true?
I'm moved to heights I've never seen before.

Small unearned gifts which cannot be ignored;
a sunrise incandescent, thanks to You.
I come to love Great Spirit more and more.

Your grace has gifted me with friends adored;
surrounds me by beloveds, old and new,
I'm moved to heights I've never seen before,
I come to love Great Spirit more and more.

My unrelenting guardian of the years,
to claw the scales of blindness from my eyes
won't spare the consequences of my fears.

Bankrupted soul, emotional arrears
will send me seeking you in anguished cry,
my unrelenting guardian of the years.

Removing self from lover's touch come near,
avoiding agony of being passed by
won't spare the consequences of my fears.

A draught of venom cloaked as cup that cheers
is snatched away before I drink it dry
by unrelenting guardian of the years.

The flaying of my own back, copious tears,
repeated penances all gone awry
won't spare the consequences of my fears.

When called upon for strength, he will appear;
should I refuse the help, he'll let me lie.
My unrelenting guardian of the years
won't spare the consequences of my fears.

sensual curves
cradled in my lap
long smooth neck
begging for caresses
ready to respond
any time my need calls
vibrating
at my lightest touch
sings like an angel
and can scream
like a banshee
my constant companion
my mistress
though it's been too long
since I last held you

don't fret, m'lass...
I'll always make a case for you.

(n) A phenomenon
whereby the day-to-day
necessities of life
call for action and thought,
not feeling,
and the emotion
catches up suddenly
when the actions stop.

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

Winter sun bleaches
sky French blue above the sand;
false warmth lures, beckons.

Icy blue skies' glance
slices through the ends of earth;
winter's beginning.

Orange, raspberry
skylight, blue-gray razor's edge
water; fade to black.

Reticent sun, a
soft, comforting blanket of
clouds over his head.

Spring's rush of warmth, the
morning breeze edged with the chill
of winter's last breath.

Whispering waves call
invitingly, not caring
if I sink or swim.

Humid evening's womb
filled with expectation of
thunder birthing rain.

whispered aroma
of salt and oysters, perfume
of ocean mother.

cool afternoon breeze
quenches red-hot sun-baked morn;
a well-tempered night.

Sky black as midnight;
wind screams in wild agony,
driven through houses.

orange spread of sun
compressed to laser whiteness
by focused blue sky.

Sweet spring air kissed by
amorous sunshine, building
slow heat for summer.

Clouds blot out sunshine,
believe they've ******* sun; he holds
ace of tomorrow.

When the day shutters
the sun closed, fingers of light
grasp through the cloud's slats.

The day is sated,
night's stomach thunder-rumbles
in satisfaction.

Sheet-metal thunder
rattles through bluest skies
and brightest sunshine

Autumn mourns passing
of summer; tears of rain streak
cheek of a rainbow.

Though a married man,
I can consume you with words;
poetically
tease, caress, enfold, inflame
far better than in person.

dust blown off the case
the left hand a wounded bird
almost a song comes

The oak tree stands with one worn branch
of perfect height. This rope well used,
'twill serve its purpose for a year,
just as the forty-two before.
With practiced hand the knot is formed;
its loop a perfect fit around
my neck.  The bitter end goes up
and in the grooved bark, wrapped three times
then ******* firm. On tiptoe now,
a deep breath in, a snort, a sigh,
a firm kick of the tall wood box
I stand upon.  The rope, stretched, squeaks
as my full weight is caught and stopped.

Most only hang themselves but once;
I'm not as fortunate as most.
I am the ghost that haunts myself.
I know the what, I know the how,
I know the why. It matters not.
My hang-up looks me in the eye
and mocks my repetitious swing,
aware that every time I fall
another piece of soul will die.

Come to the table
once groaning with delicious,
rare delicacies,
and feast on poorly-prepared
portions of our own gored skulls.

Wandering past poems
of those who have gone on, may
they have found their peace.

Cane in the corner
says: You will depend on me.
I reply: For now.

Ah...sir?
  
                  Yes, uh... you, sir,
with your head up your ***?

Would you kindly unplug
your nose from your navel
and return to the world
of humans being long enough
to notice that you

yes you

are wanted, needed, and loved?

Steady, jagged line
paves a smoother path to a
possible future.

How far away Earth
appears when perfection is
barely sufficient.

Take a hit;
hurt a bit
and get over it.

Now, listen here, Bozo...
You had no right to up
and go where even the
silvered back of
my mirror can't access.

Can't blame you though.

I've heard from
outside sources
that the Wonderland
through your looking-glass
is wholly wonderful.

Fear the Mobius
strip mind: one continuous
loop severely kinked.

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.

A bear in Florida
finds no winter,
no months to sleep
in cozy cocoon.
He watches,
wakened and wary,
for sea changes
and weather shifts.
Many other predators
spend cooler seasons
in lassitude
despite the latitude,
neither hunting for truth
nor caring about
what surrounds them.
The bear raises his head,
wrinkles his nose
at the scent of danger,
the hint of threats
to and from
his environment.

Music with values
added; not formulaic,
mathematical.