As always, amazing, Will.
So much there in your poetic words,
like countless shapes in the clouds...
clouds which frame the sun, and those that are inclined to rain.
Poet, philosopher, artist, all know the freedom
and occasional dangers of obfuscation.
They do not fear it.
They paint, and paint,
with brushes and words of many colors and shades,
while the sunbather and the farmer wait
for their share of warmth and rain.
All is not always as it seems.
The crow learns that, at the drive-up
one has to pay his way, to "have it your way" at Burger King.
And still, despite it all,
the farmer's crops and the suntan continue to confound impotent anxiety,
while the crow makes his way beneath the benches
where random crumbs embolden him to claim his own victory.
So passes another day in the life of a poet.

On the Threshold of Love

Chain link fence with barbed wire greeted the visitor to the dream.
We could not enter so we walked around Nature’s extravagant garden.
We followed a narrow thread of a trail which
          stitched its way through the green fabric of the forest.
The ground, underfoot, was a jigsaw puzzle of leaves, bits of bark, and pebbles.
The air was saturated with the scent of moist evergreen compost,
          a silent shout from a hillside defiant with life.
We passed trees dressed in velvety moss sporting calico patches
         of green, yellow and bark.
Fronds of green were about us, everywhere—a climbing army on the hillside
         taking a break from their labors.
The trail adorned itself with dainty flowers which would never know life in a vase.
Above it all stood towering sentinels guarding their occasional fallen comrades.
Their arms held multi-leveled lacy branches vibrating in the breeze, like
         the fans of an exotic dancer parsing out glimpses of the sky.
At the end of our trail lay stones; abandoned enormous toy building blocks
         piled imprecisely at the end of play.
Beside the stones, behind the fence, we spied silhouettes, patches of sky and trees
         mirrored in emerald reflection hugged by the silently crowding undergrowth.
At center stage, a tiered gray rock supported a bridal gown of white-flowing water,
         like a department store display of a June-bride manikin.
In fact it was a Sunday in June; we on the other side of the fence.  
         We were told that the park and the pool would not be open till the first of July.
Somehow the trees, the water, the ferns, the flowers, and my heart knew better.

J. Sandy

Chain link fence with barbed wire greeted the visitor to the dream.
We could not enter so we walked around Nature’s extravagant garden.
We followed a narrow thread of a trail which
          stitched its way through the green fabric of the forest.
The ground, underfoot, was a jigsaw puzzle of leaves, bits of bark, and pebbles.
The air was saturated with the scent of moist evergreen compost,
          a silent shout from a hillside defiant with life.
We passed trees dressed in velvety moss sporting calico patches
         of green, yellow and bark.
Fronds of green were about us, everywhere—a climbing army on the hillside
         taking a break from their labors.
The trail adorned itself with dainty flowers which would never know life in a vase.
Above it all stood towering sentinels guarding their occasional fallen comrades.
Their arms held multi-leveled lacy branches vibrating in the breeze, like
         the fans of an exotic dancer parsing out glimpses of the sky.
At the end of our trail lay stones; abandoned enormous toy building blocks
         piled imprecisely at the end of play.
Beside the stones, behind the fence, we spied silhouettes, patches of sky and trees
         mirrored in emerald reflection hugged by the silently crowding undergrowth.
At center stage, a tiered gray rock supported a bridal gown of white-flowing water,
         like a department store display of a June-bride manikin.
In fact it was a Sunday in June; we on the other side of the fence.  
         We were told that the park and the pool would not be open till the first of July.
Somehow the trees, the water, the ferns, the flowers, and my heart knew better.

J. Sandy

Late last night
in a crumpled bed
all my courage gone
when my dreams all fled
you were on my mind
as if you were here
though I reached for you
you were nowhere near.

Rain upon my window,
rain within my heart
makes me weak to wonder
have we grown apart?
Will this coming morning
bring you back to me?
Or will a misty daylight
tell me: "You are free"?

Soft the rain is falling
as I think of you
sweet caressing outlines
of the one I knew.
Will you still remember?
In my heart you stole
bringing life and meaning
to my very soul.

Still, the words unspoken
but actions did approach,
commitments never given
with nothing to reproach
I turned and said my prayer
forgiveness in my heart
and wished you new beginnings
with love if we should part.

It must have been while thinking
that sleep at last won out
and sometime in these hours
I woke and looked about
the clouds had all departed
a sunrise morning's day
beside me you just whispered
"I'm here, my love, to stay."

J. Sandy

Illusions come in many forms, many guises.
They often take shape, many forms many sizes.
A blank canvas or blank slate
our minds create
--children of our imagination.
Identities bulldozed by need
we rush to plant the seed
to quickly take its form,
tender and loving
or lustful and cunning
we miss the deception
see only reflection
and crassly miss the person
beneath its shackles.
The canvas a prison
is passive, not active
releases its captive
to our great surprise.
"I thought that you loved me"
"and how could you hurt me?"
with sorrowful tone
we cry "I'm alone."
The romance is ended
the love you defended
was never to be
you just could not see--
and somewhere we see them
departing in freedom
but often we miss the whole point.
True love's not possessing,
will not be repressing,
will not be demanding
nor will it be binding.
True love will empower
does not make one cower
it gives us the strength
to be happy and free.
And should you still ponder
the nature of wonder
be troubled no more
just open the door
let jealousy burn
And if they return
your joy will be great
for it is your fate
that they'll leave you no more.

J. Sandy