In the stillborn night the feathers of a frantic day
tickle the fancy and spill out
into sheets of dreams dreary

for tomorrows spellbinding faucet
of words to capture
explicit images of feelings
rushed to the tone of lone dreaming.

Hark the wind whispers secrets
to the trees waiting with leaves
to dance in the accepting arms of whispers
as it washes through the waterfalls of sound

Once in a while the heart stops short of racing
at the sight of an old lover
complicated by time and temperament
the poems roll off a press
invented somewhere in the chasms of the mind

I write because I am compelled to capture
words that pass by within reach
to entertain the wondrous pictures in my brain
that seek to form into slim fabrics of ecstasy.

Often I dance, dance in rhythm beating
a wicked bending salsa  that brings my lover
to me on bended knee. Love and poetry
dance together.

Any day give me a woman that bathes
in the soap suds of poetry and I will have
found me the rhythm of a fulfilled life.