all the colors rule —
in long cylindrical forms
cast onto desks, holding cups
wood, metal, lead, black ink blue
jars of fluid alphabet soup
stirred with thoughts, dreams
dipped and scribbled on stave
or ancestral bones written
Here our tools, our daily read
stripped from stone wall stead
this savoir-faire to: Dear Sapient

-cec

small shy smiles
laughter hidden
behind hands

a brief hesitant touch
turning into  a caress

watching as they walk away
not watching as they return

hiding heartbeats
by moving quickly
just out of reach

i remember young love

small touches
with great meanings
coded messages in small smiles
laughing out loud mouth wide
when spooning is its own pleasure

holding hands and tracing scars
saying i love  you, hearing I love you
as part of everyday conversations
learning to love through hateful times
knowing you can break but will not shatter
knowing the pleasure of knowing their pleasure
finding thousands of ways to create love
working through the boring bits
knowing the others heartbeat by rote
watching them walk away, welcoming them back

this is my season of middle aged  love

The Reaper may or may not be our friend,
depends on how much pain needs be reduced.
In time each one of us will meet our end;
we live as if we've not been introduced.

There's a lot more
to being sober
than staying sober.

we know
     we will die one day
but we don't believe it

soggy bottomed shoes
encase wrinkly tender feet

it's been raining solidly
for more than a week

the towels all smell
of mould and mildew

the carpets more mud than wool

the vegetable garden
is accsessed by canoe

and the fire just splutters
cause of the water in the flue

we have gathered a menagerie
of frogs and spiders on the
front porch, there is a sugar glider

and still it rains....and the rivers flow high
gosh what I would give to see some blue sky

To my friends
who can write
fresh-smelling
bouquets of words
with splendid color,
I offer my envy.
Mine are the blunt, stunted words,
rooted in the cracks
in pavement,
or forcing their way
to light around
overbearing rocks.
Some useful
in their own way,
edible or flavorful,
some with a
pedestrian beauty,
but few that one
would bring home in a bunch
with a box of candy.
More appropriate
in a grimy, young fist
crumpled in love,
destined to be vased
in a water glass
by a doting mother,
or shredded petal by petal
for the sake of soothsaying...
he loves me, he loves me not.

The silence of solitude
sings to me at night;
soul-satisfying
words whispered
for my ears only
while the house sleeps.
I draw from the well
of my self, and savor
each drop thirstily.
The starving beast within
gnaws at every fresh
crust of aloneness,
melted butter soothing
scalded hands,
until my rumbling gut
is sated, and is at peace
with itself and the world.