I look for you, and you're not there.

Your words that flowed like fresh water,
cool, crisp, refreshing...absent;

only a trickle of memory
seeps through the rocks.

The laughter's gone.
The creek bed dry.
Just a single tear...
running down my cheek.

It is not good that Man
should be alone, they said.
And in their ignorance they
succumbed to the holy temptation
and they created a god.

In their own image they created him;
Frail and faulty they created him;
selfish and power hungry they created him.

Then they looked upon him whom they
had created and it was not good.
They loathed him and mocked him.
They spoke all manner of evil against him.

For they looked upon him and saw a reflection

...of themselves.

Snuggled in the corner
of his crystal castle
warding off wind’s whip,
head pillowed on phonebook pages,
warmly wrapped in dreams.
Street light serves as lunar glow,
While courtyard is landscaped with
cigarette butts and a broken bottle.
He’s Prince of the Paupers.
King of this urban domain.

Pages of thin onion skin, delicately touched
with the lilting script of a fountain pen.
Coarser pages of sturdy stock filled
with strong characters of printer's ink.
Binding woven with threads of friendships
Dipped in the warm glue of sisterhood.
The poetry of life fills the pages,
sing song limericks of childhood
followed by lines of romantic verse.
Tears stain tattered pages
where losses deep are journaled.
The title embossed in gilded gold,
you shall find "Woman" inside.

Sweet cordial of summers past has lost its sparkle
And fading blooms of purpose wilt on empty table.
Stains of yester-year recall a joyful celebration
As moon beams touch on silken folds of final resignation.
Silhouettes of uncertainty appear on the horizon
As winds of season’s change portend ambiguous direction.
Songs of nightingale have lost all enchantment
While languid lovers wait--on new day’s dawning.