.
Grasping to the sky
With ever reaching
Branches, leaves spirit
Themselves to sacred
Airs.  
           Old tree, a star set
Truncated with sprite earth,
Stolid, touchstone spark,
Place, feeling all waves
Dripping by like clouds.

In some underworld,
Bathing with Gods,
Are immortal roots
Divining water, laid
In ceremonious soil,
Digging out golden,
Unfallowed tombs.

Old tree in the sun,
Great soul barking
Skywards each day,
Joyous arms clench,
Lansing, higher out,
Embracing heavens.

When I was young
I didn't have any doctor bills
now I get statements
special delivery, envelopes
full of X-rays I hold up
to the moon, that rock
sinking deep in my gut
looking like all of those cold
feelings I've swallowed
the many curses held inside
wooden matches chewed twice
and not spat out, a cancer
like a two-headed speckled trout
swimming around
trying to find its way out
when in fact it's just a feeling
I get trying to swallow regrets
one rusty old fish hook at a time.

"you cannot do wrong to do right"
(a universal known truth)
which puts all terrorists arguments
in their rightful place.

words are just wonders
   one
          can release,
                 but only one's pen
could ever crease
                     into the safety
of a poem's lease.
     so this
        is
        a
    note
        to
       a
  pen.
      "
     Oh,
    draw
  Your line
And never
Look back
From those
inked words
that flow
   from
   your
   clack
   and
   let
   them
   flow
   into
   sharp
   flack.
  or maybe
  give words
  that proper,
  warm embrace  
  which can get
  lullabies fall
  into disgrace.
  or maybe just
  draw a perfect
  dark contour
  playing with
  edges that
  make sights
  demure...
  add dots
  and spots
  on plain
  white
  paper,
  like
  living
  knots
  in the
  hands
  of a
  draper.
  pour
  some
  more
  ink
  on
  me.
   "