This bed
is narrow,
but my arms
are wide;
join me.
you are
always
welcome
here inside.
  - mce

Storm clouds
of black thunder
electrical magnetic powered
sparks lashing loose wired
consumed by lightning fire
a wild red blazing blue
hot smouldering coals of you
the final burning through
a certain kind of death
grey the ashes
of our truth.

It's not what I say or declare
but for others to judge--am I
good or bad, or neither
then what?  the why of things in life
is too often shrouded
in deep mystery and is monstrously vexatious
the heart has reasons of its own and is unimpressed by logic-
the question of what is or should be is perennially contentious

~ for Paul Eluard

This prison isn't so bad.
Though the nights are cold,
tree roots break in to warm him.
The guards hum Mozart arias
which are profoundly comforting
and the food drives away
all expectations of hunger.
The sun is black but reassuring;
the moon has gone missing.
The books he doesn't have pass the time.
The caresses of absent women soothe his body.
Many birds choose not to sing
but invisible cats purr delightfully.
Often he is offered parole,
but can't imagine a better situation
and chooses to remain in his comfy cell.
Solitude sings sweet remembered songs
and all the trenches are far away.
Sometimes he misses the smells of flowers
but that soon passes and anyway
grass sprouts in the yard
surrounded by concertina wire.
Sometimes butterflies light upon it,
deliciously anomalous.
Nothing occupies him every day;
He is comfortable here and plans to stay.
   - mce

Raindrops die on the windowpanes today;
each one now on its way to becoming an ocean.

it starts to grow cold
night unwraps stars
and amber moons,
the stream sings
with its silver-throated joys
and dreams of the skies
with their beautiful
dark
sorrows.