A fresh rose
Crumpling into
A closed fist

veiled behind the barbs of acacia
the river bathes in the lazy sun

she's a thousand years or more
but knocks my heart's door
like a flirtatious teen

come deflower me
bare me in your poetry
wear me on your skin

soon she would be lost to the sky
leaving on the banks echoes of her lust

i pause for a piece of her
before my dream turns to dust!

over death we ponder too much
or none at all
but not upon the landmark most difficult to touch

living life well.

am i living my life well?

no, money can't help achieve
nor a good career of success

you know it too well not to believe
they do any better than robbing happiness.

then is it a nice wife and a loving family
kids to hug, comfort you generously?

no, not really, they still aren't enough to ensure
fullness of life as may only briefly endure.

then what is it that makes life lived well

a good sleep to tide the night
a roof over to dwell?

doing just what you like or minding the other's wish
let your desires run wild or hold them under leash?

to me it's a mystery getting answer to which I fail
the parameters of a life, having lived thoroughly well.

but over time I've realized, deep in, its echoes ring,

living life well has a lot to do
with being contented with smallest thing.

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.

LEAVE HATRED OUTSIDE MY DOOR
WHEN YOU COME IN*

this Notice boarded on my door
seems to have done little to impress.

the ones that come in
still read from the hate book.

speak ill of others behind their back
curse those they don't agree with
spew vitriol against all not their own
criticize food habits and dresses
castigate the new generation
find fault with the old
generalize on the basis of race religion
trifle faith belief sentiment
envy for what they don't have
intensely dislike assumed disabilities
even a squint a stammer a mole a limp

more passionate in degrading than appreciating
systems, processes, relations, actions, attitudes.

people won't mend, behind them i think,

they're so ****** disgusting.

It was soft, a purple shade
lavender, lilac made
of flowers warm, we breathed
deep the inhale, swirling round
sweet the exhale, falling to the ground
reaching deep in soul
the sink, the swallow
birds of spring
songs to fill
the hollows.

I think of mountains
the way they climb for the sky
losing their way through clouds.
Looking up I never know if they reach the top
or if they see me way down here?
Some kind of ant, I dig for rocks
a pocket full of turquoise blue
a miner for Apache jewels
exposed by red dust winds
as the day chips away
and carves a night
into black obsidian.