Mud, whiskey, death
and bad debts, the river's
high water, mysterious birds
flying south disappearing
like a youngest daughter,
no good men, bad intentions,
changing seasons, unexplained
pains, all of these are reasons
I've seen good women weeping
after the hardest rains came.

Birds come to feed
on the nuts hanging
from the Sycamore
I planted as a seed
seven years back.
Its my joy to hear
them singing,
and wonder
if they hear
my songs,
a poet
in
flux.

Sun not even threatening
To set on this
Spring
Evening, and through her
Window facing the
Backyard I only now realise
That the maple tree must
Have been
Blossoming for days.

I suppose I was too occupied
With nonsense to
Notice.
Let's go, she whispers.
Let's forget about holding
Back, being rational, being so
******* realistic. Leave with
Me and just love.
I might.

I might already
Have come.

Fortunately
you are not my muse

I've worn out muses
by the dozens
cast them aside
like chaff
and cherished the sorrow
that ensued

Sadness was my calling card
my tragic handshake
a testament to a life
gone wrong

Age improved me
I survived the madness
came back to life
gasping for air

And so to your door
to spin the wheel
of language
to glory in its intricacy

Two poets alive
in the same century
two restless souls
under one uneasy roof

We will survive our families yet
raise a toast
when the day comes
to the dear
and thankfully departed

We'll leave poetry
like confetti in our wake
and touch the holy stone
once or twice yet
in our lives

I pray it will be so.

We were weaved together
By the spider who lived under the house
The one with the baby’s breath and violets by his bed

Apple pie
Tequila
And limes
Mixed with the poison that numbed my legs.