You were the rainstorm of joyful souls
Filled with vibrance and life
With splashing puddles against dancing feet
And the feeling of having more than just a pulse,
But possibly a purpose or a reason.
You were the light for the hopeless,
The lantern of chances
That shined through the darkest alleys
With shadows cast by the moon.
You were the calm and crazed paradox of the ocean
With a heart that was created to live
And a mind that was made to be tame
But a life that was caught in a whirlwind of riptides and tsunamis.
You were the green of the grass
And the pink, purple, and orange of the sunset
With the varying shades of blue and green from the sea.
You were the wonders of my own world
And the Hell of your own.

Outside of poetry
I would still be living a life
lightened and carefree
merrily chatting with wife.

I would let a poem rise in my head
throw to wind and see it dead
return to sky all breath of pain
watch them fall as joyous rain.

I would darken the screen let it sleep
burn the poems with none to keep
retire to the nook not been for long
brush up the web on a dusty song.

To be away from poetry I would strive
sail on the river go on long drive
snuggle tighter to a fathomless space
outside of poetry discover happiness.

I climbed a tree today
and sat atop a branch
I viewed the world in a brand new way
that I'm sure cannot be matched.

The tree spoke of a history
I could barely imagine.
Steeped in rich mystery,
My gorgeous old oak mansion.

Feathers sprouted from my skin,
Changes in every cell.
I was born a bird. I tried to fly
But it did not end well

it loomed like a ghost in the falling day.

an hour past the town on the way
the old man's eyes bore surprise

i wouldn't advise it, sir, not wise
waking them up is no sport

they who're sleeping in the dead men's fort.

All along i've been a phasmophobic
they ceased never to rule my head
lurking in nooks and under my bed.

it sounds nice to talk about spirits and souls
but at nights when hollows of burning coals
mistily appear and not in a dream
choke me out of scream
to that terror i fall an abject slave.

but my companion on that dusk was brave
looking at those eerily towering spires
he said let's try meeting a few vampires.

there was no door opening with a creak
but inside was a musty dark hole
where daylight made a quick retreat
as if to let the dead peacefully stroll.

we climbed up stairs strewn with dry leaves
amid sensing a storm brewing on the wing
for the awakened dead in anger seethes
to have their rest broken by the living.

soon swept us a gale of the squeaking dead
driving us out of that well occupied well
surely startled by the intruders' raid
the winged vampires were fleeing like hell.