the page was blank
and then This.

i parked words
where they should go
and now
This.

i come apart to
join a choir.
and all
things
sing.

i fetch a golden fleece
from timid scars
and coerce my loneliness
into a corner
of blatant
touch

as my open mind
dissolves
into sea a of
unrelenting
waves

combing every beach of the world
with diphthongs
and amethyst

and too many joys
to deny.

or resist.

A golden shaft of sunlight, pierces the morning sky.
Splits the clouds asunder.  Announces.. Dawn is nigh!
The lustrous leaves of Autumn, roused by the early light,
Dislodge tardy remnants, of dark departing night.

Beaded dewdrops sparkle.  Soft lit by the yellow sun.
Wraiths of mist meander, and mark the river’s run.
Iradescent damsel flies, hover among the reeds.,
Skim over shallow waters, safe among the weeds.

The **** crow then declares, the start of another day.
His cry echoed by an owl, returning home with prey.
Smoke from the homestead chimney, is reluctant to rise,
And break the unspoiled clarity, of the morning skies.

Noise of the world awakening, travels from afar.
While the rising sun, overwhelms the morning star.
Soon the wind is stirring, warmed by the gentle light,
And with new strength garnered, badgers the dawdling night!

Now the day has broken, and the sun is in full flight.
Our world appears refreshed! Drenched with life giving light!
As we start our daily chores, we note a calming peace,
And wonders of day’s dawning, we pray will never cease!

Rhymer.

The Sleeping Gypsy

Halfway up the stairs
we paused,
seeing our frozen selves
one foot above the other,
mirrored on the wall.
Reflected flesh being able
to complete the step
and take another,
we found at last
the famous painting
by Henri Rousseau.
A Customs man, they said,
could never show
the truths of savage life
that real travelers
would know.

The sleeping gypsy smiles,
his breathing slow.

Beside him lurks a lion,
tail suspended,
Skin and sinews bursting
in his ragged mane.
Will the silence of the gypsy’s lute
be ended?
What slake of water
could his shattered urn retain?

Purpose,
certain as the cudgel
in the gypsy’s hand,
is absent from the light
that blanks the desert sky,
that bathes the beasts
upon time’s lapping sand
And gazes,
timeless,
through a lion’s eye.

Walk out,
Ash and dust into the
Winter wind
Where your breath is nothing more
Than an echo to aging ears-

And I will follow
To find you in all breezes
Slipping a summer kiss
An autumn football game
Or a Spring car ride
Deftly into a place against my skin.