a liar in love
a crow in the cold
beginnings ascend
from the carcass of folly
what remains is the will
what survives is what
was there all along
courage is knowing

It is in my fate as a stone upon the sand
to be smoothed and embraced by the ocean.
My only desire is to eventually become
a part of the soil that holds me close;
I wish to dissolve into colorful pebbles
and scatter across ocean floors and beaches far.

To fill the empty spaces in this universe,
to be eternal, evermore, and reformed-
Back into the elements that gave me structure.
Perhaps I will be ingested by some plant,
who is, in turn, consumed by the fishes.
Forever, in cyclic fashion, I will remain.

But yet, I cannot dream for any longer.
A yellow sundress is my keeper.
Hands as small and smooth as my surface
carry me far from my disturbed resting place.
And I am placed on white, a blind white bureau.
Admired once, and then forgotten.

Note added January 2014 - (This poem was posted as joke for my gorgeous friend Betty Ponder who needed a good laugh)

young lady, older woman - finally old hag
young lad, older gentlemen - old and sags
five kids holy crap what was I thinkin'
forgot to put on a ****** was drinkin'

firm *******, great too see,  sagging - cover em
my thoughts, typical male, free to speak
kids crying for no reason, mom spoils em
give em all time outs -  spoiled little brats

The scent of metal, a metallic vibration, a slam
A cushion, disturbed by many tragedies, this cushion, I know has stories
A circle that steers these stories’ beginnings, middles and ends
Oh, the ends are the best from the narrator’s view
The narrator who has control of the steering of the stories
Who knows all the tragedies the cushions have seen,
Has even been the one to orchestrate such a beautiful scene
An unwilling but manipulated snapshot of a wrinkle in life
There’s no point in trying to see out, the glass is too foggy
Symbolic- the characters can’t see what is waiting for them, the other option
It has been steamed up by the narrator who used his circle to steer them to a parking lot
A metallic vibration felt buzzing through their bodies on the cushion
A pang of uncertainty, but manipulation wins…
A slam as the narrator progresses the plot and the glass windows begin to fog
The metal machine, seemingly unmovable and monstrous becomes victim to his heat
To his desire to have the plot progress as he wants it to- every tragedy is the same
Used, and disposed in the most brutal manner
He is serial, predictable
Once the car stops rocking and the cushion has gained another tale
The scent of metal fills the vehicle
But it’s not the smell of the vehicle, just the metal

I look in the mirror,
It does not look right,
Is it a trick of the light?

I can still see clearly
My eyes are still bright.
But when I am reading,
I need more light.

My crooked teeth,
I used to hide.
Replaced by dentures,
And a smile that's wide.

Grey hair once was gold,
I am thinning now,
Where waves once rolled.

My hearing maybe dulled,
But that’s no surprise.
My ears are sprouting hair,
Like a funny disguise.

My face shows no stress,
Wrinkle free I’ve been blessed.
Just a little double chin,
Cheese and wine my only sins.

In my mind I’m still young,
But the reflection is right.
It's my face in the mirror,
No trick of the light.

Once upon a time
I killed a man
I did because I'm addicted
and I needed to **** some time.
I put his body in the fabric of the couch
my friends and I sat on him
we discussed friendship and coffee
and when they mentioned the smell,
I just smiled and said it was the table.

Denial is a thing with such power.
Silence, movement; then it devours you.
I cannot see you now.
I cannot smell your skin
nor kiss you
nor love you
And yet
In my memory I will do all of these things.
Sweet torture, sweet torture
The swansong sings.
I must leave my life behind
The parents, the others, the I people I know,
But where will you be, my darling?
What will you do when I cry for you?
You cannot hear me across the tides.

I love you.

I pray you hear it in your memory.
My voice will whisper it in my sleep.
Maybe the wind will carry it on my dreams
to yours.
Hear me. Please, God. Don't forget me.

Love blows as the wind blows,
Love blows into the heart.
--Nile Boat-Song


Life in her creaking shoes
Goes, and more formal grows,
A round of calls and cues:
Love blows as the wind blows.
Blows! . . . in the quiet close
As in the roaring mart,
By ways no mortal knows
Love blows into the heart.

The stars some cadence use,
Forthright the river flows,
In order fall the dews,
Love blows as the wind blows:
Blows! . . . and what reckoning shows
The courses of his chart?
A spirit that comes and goes,
Love blows into the heart.