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Crepe myrtle blooms, pink like the blush of fever
roots growing from the broken bones and spirit
but drinks from the lingering passion of past lovers.

Your footsteps are the creeping of violets throughout
the garden, yet I can feel your touch on the air as it rains,
your memory like the wood smoke from across the street.

I lick my lips, apology and sin, at the tip of my tongue.
To Emily pt. 2
She shivers as he puts his hand on her forehead.

Ma, you have a fever, he says
and pulls up her blanket.

She closes her eyes to hold back tears.

it's your touch, son, her lips hardly move,
like rain on my arid heart, long awaited,

streams of films roll in her head,
the baby, skin of her skin, blood of her blood,
the umbilical cord never separated,
severed as the baby grew up,
a man of another woman,
the expanding distance
huddling all those cuddles into memories.

It's your touch, my son, it heals.

The son rises to call a doctor.

She knows she has no fever,
only pains of sweet memories.
I drove around the countryside
Looking for a place to stop
But I don't feel safe anywhere
There's nowhere I belong

I used to call my mother's house
My home for most of my life
I am not a kid  anymore
Wandering is my new life

I drove around the countryside
Looking for a place to think
But I can't clear my head anywhere
There's nowhere I can be

I used to think I'd be happy
When I was growing up
I am not the man I thought
Or surely sought to be

I drove around the countryside
Thinking about life
How it's always changing
And I hate that people come and go

I used to think I'd have my friends
For life, the ones I know
But I just keep on wandering
Until I find my place to go
why a poet?
because a poet
hears the words
which sing the
purest harmonies
because a poet
paints their portraits
in pastels
of phrases
because a poet
dances their agonies
into leaps of faith
and pirouettes
of passion
because a poet
sees
the beauty
in the commonplace
and captures
the moment
in a snapshot
of ink and white
because a bloodless world
cuts itself
a thousand times

and the poet bleeds
For my friends here and around the world on World Poetry Day.
A garden of marigolds....orange, yellow and rust,
Bright, soft and rich, touched with golden dust.

Quiet and regal, sun kissed and fair,
Basil -citrus fragrance that mellows the moist air.

A thousand smiling marigolds, a thousand smiling suns,
Sweet nectar, ambrosia, for natures gentle ones.

Woven into garlands, yellow with tips  of red,
Woven into memories with many a words unsaid.

Love's hopes of an Indian  bride, clad in marigold,
With dreams wrought,  promises that two hearts dearly hold.

Tearful farewell to soldiers who traverse through destiny's doors,
A garland weaved with love for  those from across the seven shores.

And when the being is but a thought, as life grays and  olds,
Wrapped in a hearse of love, their love, with weeping marigolds.

An offering so humble yet flowers that Gods wear,
An offering with love,  with a souls quiet prayers.

Orange, yellow, rust..to love, to pray, to mourn,
Golden, sun kissed, blessed.. marigolds that life adorn.
At dawn
You  see the face
Of flower covered
With dews
There are the tears
On the meadow
At night
Cool wind filling my chest
eyes rest in this beautiful sunset
ears surrounded by waves crushing at shore.
All i wanted was to sail away into the blue,
broken compass waters unknown.
I remembered the silence under the trees
the scent of the deep green forest
hidden streams reflecting silver.
All i wanted was to stay a little longer.
A familiar rhythm, a song she sang for me
soft notes all over my home
and as i lay numb
my heart beats like the raining clouds.
All i wanted was to be with her.
My roots are broken and wind
carries my soul
feeling cold under the stars.
.

With a brilliant moonbeam

as our spotlight
and the stars our audience

we kissed passionately

listening as our
heartbeats became

our applause
Compact Poem Series


A vision in the distance
as if my mind deceives
This watercolor fancy
of loveliness perceived

I dare not move a muscle
or fight against my will
A breath might break the silence
as if all time stood still

A crisp cool wind a’ blowing,
my heart does skip a beat
For but this man of simple means,
an angel comes to meet

I do not wish to startle,
nor cause an ounce of fear
If this is but a truthful sight,
I pray let her come near

The sun it is not moving,
no shadows formed to play
As this angelic vision,
walks to me this day

With open armed affection,
she takes me by the hand
And leads me to my fantasy,
then whispers of her plan

This day shall last forever,
no setting sun to fill
A love like this was meant to be
and time it does stand still
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