There are bones in the wood;
cracking, groaning, shattering.
The skeleton of what could
Have
            Been

There are bones in the wood;
whistling, wailing, whispering.
The skeleton is not pure—not good
It
            Still
                        Has
           ­                         Flesh

He had wings that
gave him flight.
The sun was
beautiful and bright.
It melted into the ocean.

But there is danger in
flying too low as well,
just ask the mermaids in
the depths of hell.
The seawater screws
up the lift.

Fly to safety and
peace,
not the
fantastical or
far-fetched.
You don't need to
have it all.
Beware of

too

much



ambition.

I walked past blue mountains,
Beside the crystal stream —
I ambled deep into the forest,
In a mist of emerald green.
Beams of light pirouetted,
Sol’s fire of purity,
Birds preened their wings,
In a shade of serenity.
Whispers rustled in the air,
Earth, water gushed,
A hymn of wind in symphony,
In harmony though hushed.
Midst the song of the forest,
A murmur in the breeze,
My soul, engulfed in silence,
Yet singing . . . at peace.
I stood on firm earthen ground,
At one with trees and ferns,
Knowing it’s from here I come,
And here I will return.

let us look at things, differently.
often, we do things, no one ever sees.
that is you and me. two of us
dancing on the sand.

it came
and went,
quickly.

Daddy belongs to
an exclusive club,
out beyond
the rules of atmospheric
pressure.

On our precocious little fingers
we count,
on tracer paper
Mommy checks our figures.
Being she was never clever
with math,
she consults with the slide rule.

No crystal ball needed,
we all know where Daddy's been:
at the apogee of his ride,
hanging out in zero orbit,
checking
on his own figures.

He must be
lonely up there, fishing off the dock of a satellite,
until the moment he reels one in.

He does his best philandering
once we've shuffled off to school
and Mommy's found her solace
underneath
the hairdryer.

She's stopped looking up
at night
to observe the starry heavens.
They only made her cry,
which, in turn, made us cry— for her.

One time we heard Mommy tell Daddy
she knew all about his long division
and how he misused
his slipstick.

With the cruel turn of a smile
he reminded her
her math is routinely
wrong.

"Usually...but not always,"
Mommy whispers in her sleep.

Tomorrow is lift off again
for Daddy,
hunting exponentials
from
heavenly bodies.

For us,
the ones left behind in the wake
of his rocket trail,
it's
addition by subtraction.

The birds remind me
That the sweet songs of loving
Were not meant to be

My heart is a stained glass window, fragile as a Rose in May
refracting light from every angle, it holds life's leeway
Suffused with fragments of love,  I can be warm as night    
filled with a sense of awe, when you tilt me to the light,  
                                 I feel just right  
My heart is a stained glass window, fragile as a Rose in May !
Fragmented beauty encased in bursting beams of afterglow
if I follow only yesterdays, life can soon appear surreal  
Infused with an outside world that can often smite  
I choose to live inside my own reflective colors,  
                                           Always, in the light   !
Fragmented beauty encased in bursting beams of afterglow
My heart is a monument to all that I have lived and known
changing and bending with every curving path
it has been overused and "Inter-diffused" many times  
like this mosaic piece of art I call "stained glass window "  
                                I am a,   "Pièce de ré·sis·tance " ( a work of art)
My heart is a monument to all that I have lived and known
My heart is a stained glass window, fragile as a Rose in May
When I pray with it, it remembers to give thanks, in every way.