As those angels gently laid you back
Speaking sweetly as you went
A rivulet o crimson
Was the sign that you were spent
I stood at your beds foot
Too overwhelmed to cry
A refusal to believe
A rejection of this lie

A fast three months that felt like six
A switchback through the gloamin
And all the time
We knew of course
The reaper was a roamin
Winding low
Checking his form
By the light of his terrible lamp
Waiting to bring down
His final ghastly stamp

So I'll think of you often
And I'll send love with this
On September the 19th
About a quarter past six.

The person I was is slowly fading
I tell no one, so no one can be aiding

My mind shatters like an atom smasher
My heart and breathing are going faster

Take a pill and make it better
Or sit right down and write a letter

What I say is written in a panic
I feel me stepping up to manic

He’s so upset, and his eyes say
“Did you have a really bad day?”

Toys are brought, 3 in all
“Grandma will you throw the ball?”

“Playing fetch will make you happy.”
I know. the dog is very sappy

I cannot ignore the plea
It’s the eyes, it gets to me

So outside we go to play
You KNOW, I feel better today

Maybe my poems
have fallen on deaf ears
to a point
where
they lost
their
voice

Lungs are His cathedrals, on this night A
Boeing 737-7 cuts a spotlight
between twilight and dream
Gods breath carving alveoli with a 10:35 flight across rib bone
and destiny
It is the curse of existence, trajectory
Neither sleep nor sunrise will stabilize me

The room ticks like a cooling engine
In a blue motel on the edge of Apache.
A tranquil night of drunks and televisions.
Poly-neon signs and road closures.
Up the road apiece, just north of nowhere,
Past the graves of Grandma and Grandpop,
There’s a place that has no business being there,
A place of cisterns and honeycombs.
A wheel in the desert, the moon on some swings.
                               🌙
            September 02 2024

Sulfur yellow a watery burn
Created in an alchemist's urn.
Water feeds fire as both evolve.
The formula of hates resolve.

You waver rights to be treated fair
Like Sampson selling locks of hair
Or selling age to a 95 year old.
Sheep follow only to die in
their fold.

Fiery seas begin as a rift.
Water being the only gift.
But nothing, nothing is ever
free
once transmuted into this sea.

But logs do drift and beaches
claim
All that gave this sea its name.

i wish i could see your grief,
lead them by my own two hands,
then give them a room big enough in
me to fit them and their lingering shadows.

In an attic at Night
I sit contemplate and listen

Sit on a windowsill
below the starry Night

Contemplate time
moments passed, beauty of past

Listen to my Heart
hear the soft pi-a-no
through Present Future and Past