We've all heard the fish story,
the one that got away;
there was this perfect poem
I composed,
but before I could
commit it to paper,
it to got away #&@%#

There will be a time
when we are warmed
by a banked fire,
when sitting close
is the passion of the hour,
when silence said
is our lover's sonnet,
in bed, holding each
nothing more is wanted.

Why watch television
When you can spend quality time
In your own mind?

Fragile the moment,
mystery its own brevity,
its inevitable passing
the poetic sorrow
of every sentient soul.

we are each
marooned,
stuffing
notes
in
found
bottles,
which we
commit to an indifferent sea,
and we
wait ...

if you were born before me,
and i before you,
then today we would be,
the way we will be,
the day after tomorrow.

Of late,
when I let
my thoughts
free reign to pasture,
they find you
beyond the orchard
where the creek bends,
before it makes a great leap.

star top evergreen,
three days past prime time casts
dunce hat across walk.

**** the poets
for wearing out
the very words
I wish to use,
"I love you."

I
feel
that
you
felt
down
today,
but
consider
that everyone
can not be an upper.

It will be morning when you read this.
You will be at work,
perhaps drinking your second cup of coffee.
Do you take it with cream, one or two sugars?
Funny to think I don't know,
though I puzzle with these love words
arranged specially for you.

Upon all things holy,
you are my altar,
before thee I bend.

This perfect day
was made imperfect,
in a single lonely way,
that you were not here
to share it.

I've not heard your voice,
though your written words
vibrate my central chord.

I know not the color of your hair,
nor seen it drape my pillow,
though I'd love to see it there

You play cat and I play mouse,
or I play cat and you play mouse.
The fact is we're both naked on that hot tin roof.
The question is Baby, how do we get off?

If there be one gift to give
and but one time to receive it,
would it be my promise,
and would that time be now?

When I read your poems
I feel that I've slipped into your mind,
where all the mysteries lie
of which you speak
As if you've parted silken sheets.

To be nothing
is to define everything;
there is no music
without pause,
no form, no shape
without margin.

I dedicate this poem to you :

the mind vacations
before the body,
lingers while the body returns,
so to, the soul,
i've heard.

We are star dust,
you and I,
from a far off place.
We've traveled the winds
of dark space.
Until you and I
once again unite
there will be no chimera,
no light,
for us there will only be
the promise of the night.

Last night
the old cat
out slept my goodnight pill.

What would be the harm
if you and I decide to lie
and make it our private currency

If in each other's eyes
We would always see
the other's charms

What would be the harm
of such a simple lunacy?

to take nothing
to add nothing
to reflect all
to retire "to"

Delete

we look for patterns,
a this from that,
this is how we cope.

Delete

Delete