The rain has not ceased
since it began its ceaselessness;
a day I cannot now remember,
though it was only six ago.
Earth and sky hold mutual watership,
Either general is down and gray.
But held in the eyes that hold –
the beauty of Beholder bold –
is a prettier time of day.
A time I do wish would stay.
I
have not writ so many words
that none more can be written
of this picture's higher worth to me
like spoken love from the mouth of God.
Around on the horse of nature's sorrow,
the world and I are to be sent.

I saw those wildflowers you seemed to speak of.
Down that road you seemed to speak of.
On that bend, near that brook you seemed to speak of.
By that spreading oak.

All of this was spoke
by a closed mouth and hushed glance.
And those wildflowers
so wild in the white,
Starry in respite,
danced me into the night in fragile breath.

We spun, we spun,
The light drops and I,
to flail catch a bit of snow,
I lost them somewhere,
So wild in the white,
Flowers with their lightening dresses,
Tresses all alight.
The blended somewhere in there
So wild in the white,
Dancing on and into evening
Into the night, into the night.

Dear love,
how they brace me for a grace
that I cannot handle.
A grace, graceful
So pretty and then so pure,
those wildflowers you seemed to speak of,
and of yet so unsure.
They truly were beautiful beyond the words you never shared.
Don’t think upon your loveliness
Be sure, my love, be sure.

For those wildflowers were all of you
and your silence stored.
You and all your silence stored
that I so adored
I wish to seem to say right back
Of the way you seem to speak this way,
That down that road I know I find,
On that bend and brook I find,
Underneath the oak I find,
You to have and hold as mine.

Time begins to run together,
several Olympians spread out.
And in their rushing they ford the same pace,
forge the same face,
until just one runner runs the race...
Thus time runs together.
Its followers cease to worship difference,
for they find none.
The farmer is as his absent crop: absent.
And the river boats between the reeds, empty of its fisherman.

Today is similar to its precursor
we call yesterday.
Tomorrow is just as uninspiring.
I break the legs of completed things
and projects are idle in the sky.
For time runs together
and change does nowhere play its game.
The same living room window holds the same, repeated light.

Rush.
Dirt wind.
The pitter-patter.
Clouds sound like dust...
Or do they sound like gray rain?
Slight beige cast ahead, above, and to world's end.
Such a tumultuous realm.
Green leaves dotting the trees like drunkards. They beg up for a drink. And slur in the breeze.
Thunder, rumble of a Royal Enfield, somewhere by the sun or moon;
Somewhere by the source of dust, gale, or gray and pale rain....
Rush.
Dirt wind.
The pitter-patter.
Clouds sound like indecision.
A slight calm-down is cast ahead,
Above,
And to world's end.

My brother yells.
Bed time has arrived with the night:
a panther on the window sill.
Purring away. His protests are slurring away.
My brother yells. No sleep. Play...Stay.....

The good cat sighs, "Come with me!"
Why?
"Because I'll die."
Oh?
"Soon by the morning's light."
Oh.
"Would you deny my last request?"
No.
He would not.
"Come with me."

Brave. My brother yells.
I'll save Baghira! he yells.
I'll save him. To bed!
"Sweet boy.
Hero boy.
My tail salutes you, boy."
His tail salutes the boy.

Paws yawn. The cat smiles...
My brother.

Mosaics in the garden.
Our room for living is pale yellow and full red,
where we may peer towards that rosy garden,
that tiled, speckled, slathered garden.

I see a Chinese bay beyond,
for all manner of junk floats the streetish high-seas
in the again gale of afternoon.

Gained is rain and then asked for is sunshine.
So received is sunshine. Blessed, felt, caressed is sunshine.
Light seems to be the pearl,
purling away from the oysterich air, whose desires to chase
are full of joy;

so I see the game from from this room,
pale yellow and filled red.

So many paths on which to orbit the teeming world,
one that is not worse as folk say
or please to think.
Because I am pleased to think,
of the current calm, which is not common,
found in these
all things....

Of mosaics in the garden
and beyond of ships.
Of light, of rain,
and overall of sunshine.

Lest we think, we cease to be,
and I ponder, therefore I am, indeed.
Good people, grasp something...
hold something.
Now nothing is produced, save sweat and salt,
dripping down the contours of leg, foot,
and heel.
Thus lathering the spot of downfall,
the spot of death.

Heel! Body, hark!
Harp,
but in harmony with the drums of mind.
With the drops of percussion, invisible and cried out from the ears.
Fashioned tears to shield you
from consequence.

But you have not trod softly,
And my dreams lay beaten and still and dead.
Beggar's garb after your feet pass by;
A light walk to stretch your limbs.
Ever my years change.
--Still I require some cloth
And these erupted flags, these dreams, will do.
They will have to do, for being still poor,
I have only dreams and nothing less.
Because should you embark again,
Under your feet they will still be spread.
And perhaps then these rags and the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Will be one and the same.

Nocturnes sing, flowers grow and
Playful shadows stretch the distance between you and I.
Little gray children,
With little gray fingers,
Clutch my color to their little gray chests.
They play their games around me
In hopes that I will smile.
Little gray hands play peek-a-boo
In hopes that I will smile.
And I must give them what they hope for
to then be on my quiet way.
Nocturnes sing, flowers glow and
Playful shadows stretch the distance between you and I.
Little gray hearts ****** into my ears.
The shimmer beats lull and
Those little gray shadows get what they hope for.
The Voice calls me home....
Nocturnes sing, flowers flow
And
Playful shadows stretch the distance.......
Between you and I.

As I lay dying,
my sin has youth.
Who tells me that this match is fair?
An old man
against his spirit and soul darkly,
with only surrendering will as key and sword.
The weights and counter-weights are
undone.
How the scales tips...
I am no more than grain for the war, scarfed down by either starved side.
I feel the last ravaged stalk in a barren field...
How the scales of God tip.

My son, you may find me at the edge of reason.
As I prepare to jump, leap, look, walk off and careen
into the depth,
the dark
of shadowy eyes.
Those shadows indeed in my eyes relay vision.
And I can almost see beneath, to the bone and the haunt it pastes on its readers.
The skull in full strong decorum.
A shook spear once held something like it. Perhaps the poetry flows
and wanders where it goes. A sorrow ****** from serene non-life.
All I care is to note
that I have privilege of viewing close my stark intentions.
For that is what the skull shows,
in its lidless bower:
the heated soul of my evil.

Were I to admit my faults, my love,
would you secure the line that pulls us abreast
by speaking true that I do have them?
I will never say that I am an image hard to break,
or that my will does not lead to some death
or another.
Nor will I ask that you deceive me with a pretty ribbon,
wrapped around my body, head to heel.
I am a fresh conceived child of the potter, no image hard to break,
but glass easy to make into dust. Clay easy to unbake.
Don't let me sleep, unanswering for the mistakes I have sung into sword,
for I might fall upon them and break.
As I have said before, its possible.
No image hard to--
I am not faultless, dear one. Never that.
I break of my own accord.
This slippery world requires a crutch
I simply do not own.
But you have encouragement enough
for us to off and find me some feet together...
...make me an image hard to break together.