I am afraid .  
Sort of an indeterminate, little , creepy, kind of feeling.

Looking off in the past distance, finding those years that have been forgotten, and trying to remember those things that are  memory.

Each day, or was it a half day? Or was it a month that slipped by, like June, no it was April, it seemed like Spring, but it might of been fall.... a day....maybe it was a dream.

Unbelievable how a dose of reality can seem to choke one down with a pair of hands that are your own, but at the same time carry enough strength to catch your breath, or my breath, or making it contextualized, the breath we all breathe .

Love.  It worked. Happiness. There were good times.

I am very afraid .

The hurried soul can feel small pains as time wisps by in rapid seconds....

The worried soul can feel great pains, as time moves so slowly and within its own terrors;

The comfortable soul appreciates the minutes that squeak by, so carefully, in just sixty seconds......

The hurried soul can feel small pains as time wisps by in rapid seconds....

The worried soul can feel great pains, as time moves so slowly and within its own terrors;

The comfortable soul appreciates the minutes that squeak by, so carefully, in just sixty seconds......

Does it mean the world
If there is no love, no feelings there,
If there can be no love, but only the guide where one is for the other,
But the other is not the one, nor for the one, nor can there be the one.
Time in all its tenure, can feel the moments slip by as if they were simply
The winds of the gentle breeze, passing across the skin, making the feeling
That they were once again, left out, to see, that the moment cannot
Be the lifetime, nor, if there is no love, be the minutes of space
Lost in eternity, lost forever.

Watch the sky fall. Let the stars, in their unending time of life,
Find the reality of flushing crimson heat across the sky so black,
That it will glow in the reddish warmth, that all the fallen stars
Should bring, and leave their tracks and life is complete,
Over the darkness of this earth,
Found by so many,
Lost by so many,
Felt among those
Who know,
The black is filled,
With you.

Amid the glory times of darkness,
Sitting on the edge of the white tablecloth,
Brilliant white from bleached soaking, and stained with yesterdays
Clouds and air of desperation, was the cup, the coffee cup,
Its broken flower coloration, its yellowish hue,
Half full of what was once blistering hot, now the juice of warmth
And the morning begins its wakening time.
Four burners atop the gas stove, each with its black *** stand,
Covered with blackened skillets, grease from the bacon, popping
And sizzling and bringing the best of the day together,
With the tablespoons of lard, from the five gallon silver bucket,
Covered in white stained T-towels, and the shallow bowl in which you washed your hands.
You dried your hands, loosely, leaving each damp and warm,
As the biscuit dough was rolled, and broken up, and pinched into the skillet
And then placed, with ringing noise,
Deep within the ovens hole, no light there, and you could smell
It all cooking, and see the hands that made it,
With their wrinkles of days of and months and years,
Making the breakfast of today, just as if it had made, no; it had made
For many years.
Bacon grease taken up on the tablespoon, and poured into the other skillet
Black, and hot, and making that little sizzling noise, as the bacon fried,
The biscuits backed, and the flours was spread in the skillet,
Browning, hard little clumps; stirred around, spoon on the pan,
And the milk poured from the quart jar, which was left on the porch this morning with four others,
Before life as we knew it began, and the spoon turning, the heat from the stove
Almost too much, and the gravy was stirred and turned, and stirred,
Thickened up, burner down, and a dozen eggs cracked into the fourth skillet,
Bubbling and popping, bacon taken up, put on a plate, the gravy stirred again,
Biscuits pulled, placed on a potholder, their greasy tops looking fine and brown,
Fresh butter, salt and pepper, breakfast was made again.
For the umpteenth time in this umpteenth world.

Simone was among the smallest of the small, a flutist of the smallest size,
Who carried herself well, and seemed to be taller than she was, at least in her mind,
Making her among the tallest, among those who could strut their stuff across the marching field.
She was proud, even on these practice days, when the dew of morning would
Make the practice areas so wet, and make her roll her pants up to just below her knees,
And her shoes would be soaked before it was over, and her heart would melt
Inside the flute, so big it seemed, compared to her hundred pounds.

Simone left little to chance, her eyes were forward, yet they moved quickly
From side to side, always checking her position on the field, and her
Position among those with her, and her position in what she perceived to be
The best among them.

One, two, three, four, five, six.  Repeat. One, two, three, four, five, six.  Six to five
They marched, long strident steps for the five foot of her, almost as if she was
Carrying the length of the world upon her shoulders. Her back was straight, her head
High up, toward the southern sky that held not a cloud, and the footsteps of those
Around her, the Flutist, till the turn, then the French horns crossing her path,
And she listened for the cue among them, and realized they carried their instrument
But there was nothing to be heard, as their mouths looked as though they played
Yet only the mouth pieces knew, it was but a scam of time.

She was wrapped in the image, that being here, on this field of one hundred twenty,
There was a leader, if you thought of it, too lead them in their playing,
But the real leader was her, briskly marching; head up, down the field, and hearing
The slides of the trombones, bam bammer, bam bam, up and down, as they never looked,
But kept time, her flute so bright and cheery, and so lost in the mornings lift.
One, two, three, four, five, six.  Six steps to five, six steps to five, six steps to five.  
Other bands, no all bands, marched eight to five, which would seems so much more
Comfortable to march, smaller steps, smaller people, across the field so major in its size
But her band, marched six steps to five, making for cleaner, tighter lines.

Ta da, daaa da, tee dee daa dumple deed ah daa, the trumpets and cornets rang out, loud
And seemingly obnoxious, in their tee dahs and tee daaaas, making for a crashing sound
Of thuno didity thump thump as the drummers passed, all music ringing loose from her head,
And the crashing sound of the drum, and the Thump, Thump, Thump, Thump of the bass,
Keeping time, keeping rhythm, of the John Phillips Sousa march across the field.
Her feet kept time, her flute braced up to her lips, her breath pouring forth,
Blending in perfect time, to make the most pleasant noise, her breath taken in, and her breath out
She flowed with the drums, the trombones, the trumpets, and heard the bass attempts
To play of the baritones, God’s most beautiful instrument, and the caterwauling
Of the clarinets, tooting and playing and attempting to play, some brand of music,
Some portion of a song that must have been heard long ago, that seemed to have
Nothing at all in common with the song at hand, but each looking down to trace
Their finger patterns, to hear the music as it played.

Simone’s flute, for all it was worth in her small tiny hands, in her small tiny arms,
Across this major large field, with these bodies next to hers, with the blats and sickles,
The very intent of each one to make its noise across at one another, seemed
To be a cacophony of sound, a completeness of nothing, and mess of a wreck of instruments.

Then there was the noise.   A complete and un-fractured belt of wonderful musical sound
As it marched toward her, as it seemed to assault, but to pay compliments to her,
As it seemed to worship the very wet, damp ground, upon which she walked, she felt something
In her body, a stirring, a feeling, her stomach turning in a good way, as her eyes lifted
She saw him, marching, One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six times across the field,
One step was starting on the yard line, the last touching the yard line, five yards later.

The sousaphone.  This mass of brass, wrapped three times at the valves, turned
Around his neck, ending in a massive, shiny, bell of a horn, bigger around than her body
Bigger than a freight train coming down the track at her, she saw him.  Felt him.
Could feel the cool timber of his breath and voice and song, played so well upon
That instrument.  He was over six feet tall, no six feet six, and that horn, dear god,
Was two feet and several inches across the bell, putting him eight feet tall,
Compared to her five feet, and her fragile weight, and the mass before her.  That sounded,
So beautiful.  So real, such a part of it all, its tone, its timber, its reality was there and Anthony,
Playing it with intensity, playing it so strong, its notes almost removing her light little
Shoes from the field.  She thought she could float, she thought for a moment, that she
Had died and was no longer walking, but floating across the field.

Boom. Boom. Boom. Down. The. Scale. Up. The. Scale. Boom. Boom. Boom. Anthony played the music,
And marched, keeping time, and handling the music well……and he heard her soft little notes
This miniature toy before him, this small flutist playing her trills, her melody, her principle
Piece so well, so that it sneaked in and captured his heart in a moment, his breath short,
His feeling of being the only person in the band, suddenly expanded to two, took him hard.

And they played their music, their parts, and the rest of the band tried to keep up.

Can you hold it close?
Are there things around it that make it impossible?
Or is there even a chance that something, some fragile moment should
Break open, for just that second, just that breath, that blows out
For that one tiny piece of time,
When you can say,
You held it,
In close to you, so that there was
No doubt, that it felt you
Holding it, if even for a second of time.
Can you hold it closer?

In the mean of time, when walking across centuries and places, and the feeling
Of hours and minutes gone by, as if adventures were nothing, and moments in their
Pace, that of a breath, of a second turned minuscule, of life itself a fractured piece
Of history, of anyone, lasting the full depth of relevant living, can be without that first thought,
That last whim, that feeling of finality so quickly I poured upon them.

The reckless speed of traveling through, the hours and minutes crashing into one another,
Finding the way out amongst the backwalls of brick and mortar, so meaningless in
It's own right, as it too snap crumble and fall and make the life for new plants and new water
All those things that come with time and age, and life, making all things great
And all things small once again.

The enraptured beauty, that feeling of knowing, albeit subtly and on the edge of reality,
The worlds true translucent one, the knowing of the feeling of breath,
The sweet air that moves all around us, and considers our moment, our seconds, our miniscule
Bit of that little piece, that fraction of it broken down, to just that second, that you know,
You have seen real beauty, reality in its best form, real loveliness, for that first and only time.

Through this small fleeting of time, the History of The One, should be told.
There is little in the catch-a-day world that can brood up the feelings so deep,
That will make the stars and evening spirals glow dark on the sky,
And make the falling stars, fall to nothingness, and the glow of the nights sky become dark,
For in that pale face, in that golden hair, with that smile, everything is forever.

Right after my name,
There is a year there, the year of my birth, the year I have no memory of, the year that I was born,
Its there, signifying my entrance into this world
My spectacular entrance as a third child, born to a third child,
Destined to be without a destination,
That mighty bruiser who cries and whimpers, but will grow to be
No more afraid or chilled or concerted than the man
Who has little emotion, and can feel those things around him
As everyone does, but different in the way, that blue smells good
And bread blows yellow across the window,
To finding that the greatest salt earth driven thing
Is the love that one can feel, but not touch.
Tell me of this work, these years all past and past again,
Seeing those people around that aren't around anymore,
And figuring out that my life, when figured on a mathmatical basis
Is more than half way gone, no three quarters gone.
All this ****** work, and knowledge and love and hate,
And covering it up to be something, I know I am not,
All but the dash.  Look, it is there, on this page of poetry,
On these words that so simply tell me or tell you what is,
And there is that despicable dash, that will show two centuries,
Two hundred years to choose from, this dash shall be in collection
Of those years.
Leave it blank.

The warmth of the morning, with just its cold chill,
Can send the essence of the dark night, whistling
In the background, and making its waves, and tearing up its minds
Off speeding into the darkness it leaves behind in all its cold terror,
Letting the wicked and the injured inside, collapse and follow it,
As the days foreshadow beings to set in, touching the walls around us
Its grace and registration of a new day settling in, in unencumbered
Gripping making the new time, this new time, a complete release.
See the shadows of the darkness as they move so quickly, yet slowly through,
Hear the stillness as it begins to warm, and the floor begins to make
Popping noises, as the water heats and steams and comforts the room,
It can be felt, it can be touched, it can be the presence of the daytime
Floating over, bringing sunshine, bringing joy, and near fulfillment,
As the darkness of the night, recedes, for now, into the holes it is kept in,
Until the sun begins its flow, to the darkness.  Pray only for the moon.

Wash the Monday from my back, and leave me there to soak
In that rapturous bath of Fridays preparation, and Saturdays wonderment.
Your hands and heart can wash away that filthy guile, brought about so
Seemingly easily, by days turned with bent figures, walking upright in
Their presence, so crouched in their intent, so much the feeling of them is almost welcome,
With the smiles and fraught gestures of humility and sunshine, pours through
And graces their face, with light, that can be seen as glowing and righteous,
Only to be revealed in their common ugliness, in their dark way, in themselves.
Wash the dark winds and fretful traces, of that which makes me unclean, and
Feel the utmost traces of your blue sky against my back.
All the things that make me what I am, lost among the senses of those that try
To tear me down, clean your way, and make it built within me.
There is no one, no hand that can wash, no person that can say, or do, or hold
Anything of any matter, more than your hand, your arm, your shoulder,
That essence of you, can keep us together, and wash, wash the Monday,
From my back, and  leave me here to soak.

He felt the chest move up and down,
Like a clock, it’s moving was certain, one, then two
Then three beats, then five hundred, five hundred and twenty,
He could feel the pressure of breath, moving so gently out, so gently in,
And he could watch the soft slumber as it rested
Upon the face, the eyes moving gently beneath that
Fragile skin placed there, that made the eyelids,
A beautiful song; a soliloquy maybe, coming up from that
Glass-like face, lost in its own respite, lost in its mysterious feelings
Of day and night and all the time between wrapped into one.
He knew, that somewhere there, deep inside, maybe today
Maybe not today, maybe in the will of the sanctum,
He too was there, as she slept soundly, folded against his body,
She lies there, so soft, so gentle, lost in her own device.
He could feel every inch of her body, and never move his hands,
The warmth of her, the essence of her, pouring over him, consuming
Him in a soft, luxurious liquid, the essence of sleep.

Carry me into the soft light of evening, let it fall on me
And make my eyes shine, and look on you, as those whose thoughts
Have meant so much to both of us, and the gaze seeing you,
As you smile your quick smile, and make your face, reflect the field
On which I, have been the one who wins, the one
Who almost loses; until I see your eyes, and the permutation that is you.

Carry me close to almost darkness, as the feeling of you takes hold, and
Sings its quiet song of romance, and feeling for myself, of everything
In me, that belongs to you, which in itself is everything that I am made of,
For you, the ceaseless-being who’s catching smile and feeling touch,
Pull us together; seeming to find the line of communication without speaking,
The pull of music played without sound, the completeness, of holding one forever.

Carry me into the black, the color that expels all color, by making it fade away.
Take me into your totality, to the expansive room where wind and air, and thoughts
And dreams, all come together, like cymbals crashing in silence, like warmth
Falling into coolness and the destiny finds itself as much a part of the beginning
As it finds itself in the peak of being one together, and finding the world a vapor around
That feeling, of being the one carried, softly by you, into the night.

a softness in the day, brings a flower of spring through a little rain, and in this coat of fine colors, one can pass the great things, or one can find the things so wonderful, that without them, life in itself would be bleak, but with them, it is within the soul.

My body stands out here before you;  lost in the summit of high expectations,
Covered with the snow and ice that follows the concept of freezing one
Then another, find the way to make the cold so cold, and the heated warm
Colder still.

Looking downward, over the precipice, looking at the rocks and gully
And wondering if one could take the spiders run down the side, bouncing
From rock to rock, grass to ice, feeling to everlasting feeling, and whether
It would bring one down to the basic form of figuring out, where it began.

My predilection of the practicable procurement
Of the positive information
So paramount to your perpetual planning
And the avoidance of my being perceived
As a potent prevaricator, has eclipsed
My proclivity to procrastinate.

She seemed real and unreal, all in a moments notice, that might last a minute,
Or be three weeks in seeing her, seeing her smiling and laughing, then clammed
Up tight as a wrench could pull it tight.  She wore sunglasses at all hours of the day
Lived in her apartment, no lights, felt they added too much heat, hurt her eyes
Kept the air conditioner on all day and all night, her nights were days and her days
Were nights, dark blue curtains, with the shades down and drawn, cool and cold
The television on, the oxygen machine singing its sad one note song, and when
She tired and was off to bed, that box fan sat at the foot of her bed, blowing cold air into sleep.
On her head, where her feet should have been, wrapped in blankets, noises off, but running

Lunch would come early, an hour or so, and they would line up at the desk, and gather
Their paper plates and plastic bowls, and the woman who worked there had a basket, she
Would take two or three lunches up to the folks who were afraid or sick or could not come out
And each day she would greet me, one lunch left in her basket, and with a half smile, I would take it
Trudge up the elevator, down the hall and knock on her door, let myself in with my
Key, see her sleeping under all that silent noise, put the food down, go out and lock her door.

She watched movies with Bill on Friday night, he lives just down the hall, and at midnight he thanked
Her, told her he must be off, and out the door he made his path, round the corner, into the night
A smoke and a watch at the news, then he forgot her, and found himself caught up asleep.
Saturday no one thought anything about her, Sunday was a brilliant day of sunshine and warmth,
But none thought about her, not her son, who rarely thought of anything, not her  sister who considered
That she was tired and old, not yet sixty four, not even poor Bill who watched the shows.
"Check on her", was a the word, "she didn't buy lunch", from another, "sure, sure, I will do it",
Only to find, in those cold dark rooms, beneath her covers, the fan blowing hard, the singing machine
Keeping its solitary note, her body, just her body, not soul, not glee, not glad to see you,  wrapped
In the blankets, her hair amiss and blowing, her feelings all gone, she lay there dead, to this world,
Making a wonder, feeling the cold, feeling the darkness, feeling forever gone.

Sometimes the best
Is when we feel we night have it;
The touch of it is great enough to make you wonder,
And then you do.

With mere bristles washed and head forward,
Across the glimmering water runs, the brow held high
And the feeling of being part of it all, while the
Wind sweeps slowly, but largely down the path, the water makes
The best of times, that cannot be the best of times;
For in this body lies the spirit that so overflows, and spreads
Throughout the lands, and fields and forever's pieces, and makes
Its wants glow, to you, to them, to all of them...for we are simply caretakers,
Not owners, we dare only touch those things that shall move on past us
Making life and love for someone else.  The love and life I desire.

Tess looked up and across the cake, that was full  of  colors
And icing, all pinks and fluid reds, with greens around
The middle, and Birthday Happies written so pretty
Across it, in wider icing, and small stars and twinkle bits
On its side, with just a few candles, blue, red, pink, lit
Up for all the world to see, her hands on either side,
Posing for a picture, seeing the flames all yellow
And watching her face, with a smile so bright,
That eclipsed the light of the frosting.

Her face seemed younger than ever, as they sang the song;
Happy Birthday they sang, in voices that were clear,
Yet out of tune and some that even crossed the line
Between singing to deep, some too light, one or two
Right in the middle, with candles burning, laughter
Breaking from her throat, as she watched their faces
And felt the love that was hers, all hers.

"Make a wish" they said, after someone sang
"and many more" they all laughed, and she started
To wish aloud, when someone said no, it must be silent
To keep that wish a wish.  Tess, thought for three seconds
Closed her eyes, made her wish, opened them and blew
The candles out, to laughter, clapping and cheers.

She smiled, she laughed, she kept the pace, and cut the cake,
Her thoughts were here, but not, as she considered each
One, each birthday, as being so very different, as being
So very the same.  She held the little ones, in the back of her mind
The gracious ones of heart and love came forward, and the thought
of more seemed far away, but the light, the colors, the candles
They meant so much more, than words can say.

"A toast!" She said aloud, to all those who loved her dearly,
"A toast!" she felt, for those who loved her dear, but could not be there,
"A toast!" she thought, for those who could only be in memory,
For another year, your Tess has lived, and made you happy,
"to You, Dear Tess, make us feel you in our hearts".

Sweet breath of mountain,
Breathing in slumberous calm
Controlling my mind with the deep smells
Of each pine needle, crushed under foot.
Sending up my senses the memories of mountains
Buried where past breezes blow.
Taking my breath with each step,
Sleep over rock, taxing my lungs
Drinking yet deeper the mountains persuasion.
Knife sharp glints of sun
Slip between bough and branch
Casting fractured lights and dark, dancing
Shadows at mid-day.
The mountains small creatures attract
The quick glance.  Calm watchers see
Soft green lizards, tiny bugs,
Slowing only, to look at me.
Cold waters split the mountains skin
Ever running downward, ripple over rocks
And fallen cones.  Falling to crescendo
In a white cascade, searching a path to the sea.
Take me sweet mountain, let me stand
As a tree on your side.  Let me be nurtured from inside you
That I may grace you humbly, and that you, might grace, me.

Sweep gently cross the light hairs,
Gracing the tender neck and head,
Blow to criss-cross, part, then unfold
Touching, tickling, ever so lightly.

Small the rise of goose flesh
A silent, tender shutter on the skin
Another creature touched
A stroke of the Nights wind.

Solitude, never crowd
Leaves the senses open, aware to feel
The blade that only scars, never cuts
The heart.  Being alone.

Sanctity and reverence, something holy
Peers inside the soul,
Snatching a few tiny seconds
Taking them off, on the Night winds blow.

Weakness prevails on a wanting heart
Rapt with attention on a love lost.
Corrupt to decay, the mortals hold,
                    Buried,
                        Forever buried,
                           Burning the soul.
Its depth without definition
Its breadth wider than though,
But the chain holds tight, welded
                     Welded
                        to forever
                           to its forge.
No understanding, no hint comprehended
Of lost psyche, lost physical
Of emotions poured out as hot acid
                        Draining
                             Ever
                                 Draining.
Weakness takes over, lies can abound
Crossing lips still missing tenderness,
Across a mind void of reason
                        Pulling
                             the
                                Blood
The very life giving blood of power
Of mans pure self
Weak in the face of want.

The dawn still miles from reality
Distant still forefront of desire,
But evening is well for the soul unattended
Still waking in dusk soft touch.

Stretching the day can be obsession
For fears of the night door, waste of morning
Obsession the steps to panic and frenzy
In; to the black empty dark.

Fear is exposed, the heart rent open,
Falling in a waking dream, falling to no end
A necessary trial for survivors who learn
To spare the cold midnight.

The darkest door in the darkest room
Most often opens to some light, maybe gray,
Maybe shadowed, maybe sunshine,
But always, beyond the cold midnight.

Romance and desire, such a thin line
Falls between right and wrong
No fence sitters here, either is the call
With penalties built in to both.

Romance price; a life, most likely your own
With all you have given it
Forever you carry a piece in your heart
Never shed, can you be, of its grip.

Desire is more; you choose who you ****
Who will suffer from false hopes and whims
Who will make the mistake of false hung romance
And invest more than they want to give.

Desire is a shell, false throughout
An empty satisfaction at best
While romance can hold and comfort
And be the companion through this earthly life.

Careful plot of line and form,
Perfections drawn shapes to blend
The face as a porcelain doll
Cast in light robe backdrop.

Long neck white, unblemished
Tender to touch and eager
Traced lines to *******  still pink
Untouched by nursing strains.

Simple straights, lingering curves
To legs of runners envy
And feet carved by artists old
With eyes a tempting, piercing cold.

Colors washed from imaginations pallet,
Leave the sculpture bare and cold,
But oh the minds dear dreaming,
Can touch each sense, through seeing.

Seeing you took all the
Evil thoughts off my mind,
And brought about the good ones,
The tame ones, the wild ones, again.  Feeling you there
Made the world right, made it seem to
Turn and answer the coming night, as it rolled around, and one
Knew it was coming, as a cold breath in the sky.

You were seen but not seeing,
As you could be taken only
As a woman should,
Inside the heart, the mind, the thrill
Of knowing that you
Were there, and you could be seen, Tess, talking, or being talked too.
So quiet…..and watching you,
Your eyes move across the tile,
Looking up and around you, but close, so close
It felt that I should
Touch you, and bring you back to me, but I listened, I watched, I waited.

The waves of water beat
Down upon your shoulders,
Your graying hair felt its force and
Was washed downward, your face frankly watched,
Your eyes closed, then open, more so clear,
It steamed and rolled down you, your arms
Pulled up, a backward shape, as you
Clasped your hands at your chin, and covered your ******* with your elbows
And you saw them, in that devilish water.

So clear and steaming, the waves
Covered your body.  The
Spirits circled about and surrounded your head.
But I listened, I watched, I waited.

Quiet at first, then murmurs, then little
Noises that made no sense,
And Tess…..
Your mouth never moved,
Your eyes they wandered with reality,
And small words,
Crept out, not of you,
Nor by you, but words that seemed so quiet,
With the water splashing around, and spanking
The floor with its downward run, and the
Past, the future, the feeling around you,
Your being so light, your feet were off the ground,
Touching your shoulders, your face, your hair
The water seemed much louder, as I watched,
But the noises grew, your face moved
Quickly from side to side,
And upward and back, and your mouth was moving, as if
To compete,
But no sound ventured out,
Except the sounds of feelings that dashed
Before your eyes, and your body shook,
And your skin grew red, and your face it turned
To take them all in, and your eyes, wet from the water,
Wet now with tears.

The volume was so loud, the water, the feelings, the voices,
Beating down on your head, banging about the shower walls, crossing the room
Finding me, like thunder on the stage it cracked and shook, and went silent…

Just the water, just you Tess,
Just the feelings of you being alone,
As you turn it off
As you peel from the wrapping,
Pull your towel close to your face
Wipe your tears and the water, washing it off,
You turn, and see me,
And you smile,
You lay your head, still wet,
On my shoulder, and it is us, all alone.

The long branches hang down so softly,
From the great tree that surrounds us,
With many branches, yet unfolding, softly
Like a curtain, in the wind, that never closes
All the way, nor opens to the sides of the stage,
Leaving dark those places that seem rare and alone.
The hidden people look and watch from silent slumber
Their feelings gone and their faces blank,
As they watch the happenings there,
They see the tree as it grows firmly down and strongly upward,
Until the branches rest among the clouds,
And the grass grows deeper and darker
As the clouds fill the sunlit sky;
Making the vision soft and raining
And the branches fall downward, and loop their gazers
And the tree grows and stands tall
As the stage door closes...
The actor walks out of the scene,
The tree stands alone upon the stage
Its roots growing deeply, breaking the boards
It waves a gentle wave
As the wind finds it,
It becomes itself,
Slow.

Near silent, the sound of water split,
By the keel of a masterful helm,
The shine of the wheel in the cool eves' sun
Reflects perfect rigging, secure to the turn.

A soft billowy ride, water and sail
All clouds of contentment from a masterful helm,
Not a ripple or wave crease the strong hull
And the wind pulls the full sail in tow.

The flash of white waters crest over the bow,
Mother Wind in her prerogative change
Mighty crash as she breaks over wild wave
Listing to gunnels, wave upon wave.

Tack end and turn, jibe, pull the main
Button to a masterful helm
Bring her steady deep keel, love the wind
Stow the lines, such cause for the love of a sail.

Cross the surf, broken white
In tiny splash, sprinkling bow and pulpit
The small prow, driving forward to the main
Catches the quick wind.

The Amitie sits anchored twice,
Its hull by sand, shoved round its keel,
The high tide line stretched
Slack across barren beach to hooked cast iron.

The fisherman mourns today, life is gone
From Amitie, small daughter lost.
The paint of her namesake fades
While gunnels dry in early summers sun.

Tomorrow she will be out again
Loosed with tide, beyond the surf
Families still need fed, fish need caught
The money to trade for the living.

Feeling ever as a roof of clear light,
Painted with fragile strokes
Not a pale blue on bright gold
But with a touch of haze to temper.

Somewhere between brilliant and depressed
Lies the Van Gogh sky,
Broken by a solitary gull
Fishing where fishermen have been.

Removed from its place, a stained glass window
Turned over, the hull of a mighty ship
Held where painted, its expanse forever
At least to the edge of the frame.

A thousand brushes on plain white,
Left to right, small drops, imperfections
Leading the eyes to feel,
Feeling an honest reality.

The gate is hidden in ivy, thick
Ropes, both alive and dead
Providing trellis for new growth, always
Leaving room for the gate.  Arched
Top of weathered oak, so keenly
Shadowed underneath, one key to
The secret of my secret garden
        Never Locked,
                   No Need,
                        No one goes there but me.
The doorway cut in hollow blocks
Some turned up, others down
A mosaic of solids and holes;
Triangle holes where small breaths
Of citrus air sneak past, to scent
And blend with vine and flower
Large and small, brilliant shades,
         Fresh turned earth,
                   Nostrils full,
                       With sweet privacy.
Walls, much taller than my head
Surround the inner area
One north; a mass of solid stone,
One south; holding the gate in its arms,
One west, staying the evenings sun
One east, open every other stone
With the beams of Sol cutting through
           Giving life,
                   Living Light,
                        Make my garden alive.
Well worn bricks in connecting
Circles, still damp at noon
From dawns' quick cleanings.
My feet in soft soles, never disturbing
By tick or clacking a fear in
The blue-jays and redbirds
Perched on the ancient carved stones
            Worshipful,
                    Quiet though singing,
                               Singing for me.
The oak bench, painted only
With rains of many seasons
Polished seat and back, smooth as
Sanded, with the fabric of trousers and shirts
My body reclined in respite,
A few hours, a few minutes
Stolen from the demands of others,
             Everyday demanding,
                      Draining the quiet,
                            Chipping at the walls of my garden.
A damp perspiration
Slips down the inside of my shirt,
My face is washed in the afternoon sun
Alone, finally alone,  pulling useless weeds
Impeccable manicure, attempting perfection.
Maniacal fervor must find a place,
A place where one can think,
                A place of my own,
                       of my making,
                            My secret garden.

Careful plot of line and form,
Perfections drawn shapes to blend
The face as a porcelain doll
Cast in a light robe backdrop.

Long neck white, unblemished
Tender to touch and eager
Traced lines to ******* still pink
Untouched by nursing strains.

Simple straights, lingering curves
To legs of runners envy
And feet carved by the artists old
With eyes a tempting, piercing cold.

Colors washed from imaginations palette,
Leave the sculpture bare and cold,
Oh the minds near dreaming
Can touch each sense through seeing.

The green lawn flows out from my feet as
Shallow sea water rolling over wave.
Manicured to the nth, each blade cut precise
A carpet growing to the sun.

To my sides swathed in carpet
Loved ones held dear, forever with me
In this strange and new world, never
Speaking, only keeping, the vigil in silence.

At my head, tight cut granite
Bears my name, a few facts
Leaving to insignificance
The significance I once had.

Beyond; ancestors, all in silent repose,
Waiting for something.  Dressed in their finest
Metals and woods, linked to the soil
Locked neath this green flowing lawn.

I know the years seem rolling faster,
Our lives in constant change,
But through the days, the nights, together
We remain, still us.

Other changes could take place,
No one knows the course of direction
But of those things we can choose
Some need more time than others.

We have kept our lives as open books,
Reading one another,
This baring of our thoughts and dreams,
Are what keeps us; still us.

A little more time, to think and reason,
Together we remain,
Living and learning, teaching and healing,
Still us, together, are we.

Tear down the rotted timbers riddled through
With smoke of ancient fires,
Winding through the grain as
Natures grave robbers,
In, out, leaving trails
Boring holes smooth and sharp.

Pull down walls, drafting with
Yesterdays winds, growing smaller
Each day as tiny fragments
Stretch free of tight structure
Losing to fall
Drying to blow away in a strong breeze.

Purge the fearful roof of its
Rafters, clean the mold and dust
From its underside, grown so fierce
And tight till adherence appears
To have been in the original plan
Set as the concrete in the foundation.

***** the mighty teak and oak, taller
Than before, cross with bracing if
Steel and metals new, resolve
To glass the holes as windows,
Build upon the strong foundation
Stand to the winds, roof shelter from the rain.

Standing as a posthumous syllogism on the main platform of the terminal, is the statue,
Of what is perceived to be man.  Nondescript in attitude and feature, balanced
By the raw fact that a craftsman was disposed to cast it in bronze.

The likeness of the general populace, defined through blank eyes, in the perfect reflection
Of the truth.  It seems that the epitome of accepted natural progression, that there
Should be no inscription, no engraved statement of popularity or definition on its base.

The dank smell and dust on the edifice on which it resides, continues to be a grim reminder
of the expected and the commonplace.  The reminder of what was and is, is left unnoticed,
Forgotten by the familiar repetitive sight.

The dying terminal (a redundant epithet) has grown dark through the cast of despair
And false hope showering its massive windows from above.  Light source has been cut off,
Leaving only a path of beaten resolve, to direct the feet of the misguided.

Not unlike the path, closest to the fence, struck hard by the hooves of the cattle, prompted forward
by the hand out of food in the first cold days of winter.  The stream grows on a daily basis, more and more
The masses trip and stumble aboard the trains, to find their lurching, rocking way to self destruction.

Nobility could have been found in even handed choice.  Those who chose the line, the prolonged rail of
Indifference and non-comprehension. Rails of iron, rusted like the rotted cheap pines on the waters edge.
It is the longest journey, containing the most miles, the last station, the end of earth and existence.

In some way you have known the base emotion, and what has been the guise of continuity, it is a new
Reality, a new abstraction, there are no contradictions. The checked premise and the realization
In words and concepts, those things we have known all along.

The realization is loved and hated at the same time, and it can only be  beneficial that the welcome
Exceeds the hatred.  The desperate homage to the masses is fading from the tangibleness, and is
Replaced the the disquieting base physical feeling of the impending no mater being undesired.

More important is the knowledge, that the precepts and premises held
Without words have the tangible meaning long desired,
And that the intangible reward, that can only be shared with few.

It is not within my soul,
To find a vengeful wrath,
To seek a painful end
From a painful beginning.

There is no reward in revenge,
No reward in hurt or hate,
No pleasure in misery,
No love in judgement.

The things of your life have happened,
As have the things in mine,
All creating a deeper devotion
Building a deeper love.

Peerless profundities profusely proffered,
                                   Produce prolapse and propensities pro-fluent,
Presumption presides, practitioners pilfer,
                                   Perception perfunctory, penance penurious.

Candors past was hidden still, behind
Cragginess of face and solid jaw,
Weathers brace had darkened his soul
And his complexion mirrored the move,
The iron mask went unnoticed by all he knew.

The vise and chains across his head and feet
Likewise were invisible, the grimaced smile
Deceived and fooled; Only he whose past it was
Knew what truths were hidden there,
And what  salvation held in store.

He could not **** the memories,
Though dampening dimming, holding back
Putting them in their place
Would be a victory to savor
As any would in Candors shoes

What more must be paid?  What is
Salvation price?  To gain the
Soul is loss of life; loss of past
Accepting direction and lead
Clinging to the sheer walls of changed destiny.

Carry not the magic spring in less
Than jars of gold; or
Vases of pure fired silver.
Never taint or let it be tepid
Only cool and clean and ready to drink.

Satisfactions degree is only determined
By the users feel, not wish or want
Nor what should have been
But only in the reception digesting,
Waiting circulation throughout.

There is no mystery in the magic spring
It cannot corrupt, only introduce,
It cannot lie, only offer alternative
Never wasteful, sometimes lacking flavor,
But always running, bubbling and full.

The price of drink is forever change,
No return to placid ignorance;
Desires thirst  for more
Constantly prevailing, interminable quest,
For satisfactions degree is determined simply, by feel.

Efforts run a trickling stream and Good Intentions leap a head, Dedication fights the hardy fight
Lackadaisical rides the flow.  Respite comes up fare, Desire strives ever forward, only few will
Make the race, but Doing lags behind.  Effort holds up, slowing a tiny bit the end not yet in sight
Good Intentions has already died, Dedication surges toward the finish.

The finish line is not so far, Lacky fell off quick, Respite finds one or two, Desire is crawling, Effort
Is right behind, Dedication takes the easy way out.  Doing is plodding, trudging up the hill, but, picks
Up Desire before it falls...Effort is gone, some laugh, laugh at the race, but winning is None the Less
with Doing and Desire right along.

Masses move like clumps of weeds
Floating narrow outlets, making corners,
Pieces breaking off, sliding, new turns
Some stopping, disappearing, moving on.

The stream divides and crosses
It loops right then left, no seeming end.
The cars all dusty brown and wet and arrogant
Sound bleating cries, jostling to win.

Each one thinking they are the only;
Unconscious to all others, but having to.
Quick moves, sudden turns, ignore to negotiate
Serving a tiny purpose, finding a tiny end.

Above the rush and floating mass
Peering sharply down, closing in
The monoliths and testaments, providing each
One a burrow, and a fence, against escape.

Envy.  Mixed with pride and shaken well, creates the emotion around the endeavor
Taken so forthrightly on, with little hesitation and with adventures pen of promise,
marking an others victory.

Goals.  Set so high, but reached with sweat and blood, are the flavor to make adventure live,
No accolades could compare with the knowledge of a triumph well conceived
a job well done.

Adventures pen.  It writes of loves lost and things conquered, it tells of determination, hardiness
and desire, In picture painting feelings, it writes of some braver, some willing to accomplish
more than the rest.

Call.  It will be best, keep it best, live it the greatest, no other can feel the same feelings or know,
The sacrifices, the hurdles crossed, and no other can remove or,
take away the conquest.

The classic touch of time and wisdom meld,
Holding knowledge, bearing witness to life,
Exposing small wisps of experiences,
Teaching, ever learning, guiding feet along the path.

Sound and sense, straightforward to direct,
Culling waste and wanton distractions,
Feeding, nurturing, expanding outward
Building others as well to success.

Wisdom and experience shared, serve only
To increase the givers own,
Working for no the lifetime,
But for the life, the working time provides.

Dare to to eulogize a living man,
Follow only the lead of respect,
In return respect will find you,
And all its benefits you shall claim.

Scanning above the heads of the crowd, looking
Forward, ahead, never erring to glance at the feet
And risk a stumble or fall.  Crowns of brown and
Black and blond sprigs of grass on moving soil.
Stepping lightly from time to time, watching close
For another ones eyes to meet, rare though possible,
And when they lock it is an intensity, one of knowledge
That communicates, divines, sees inward, respects.
A downward glance can bring it on, and lift the
Other up to reflect the shine, and give so complete
A pictures, as though the minds close around one
Another and share the common bond.
Meeting eyes of equal height, a rare and priceless
Privilege indeed.  One savored, placed in memory,
And learned from.  The ultimate respect in knowing,
The others downward glance provided you the lift.

The magician waves his hand over experience and knowledge,
Recites the incantation of flight and gravity,
Power rises from the dust of the trade, illusion, distraction
Become miracles, levitation becomes reality.

Great spans suddenly shortened, distance is misplaced,
Total control so fragile, dependent no longer on magic
And spirit, now on man and mans machine. Propelling
So high, in reality and fantasy.

Experience becomes the magic wand, the incantation,
Clouds and winds become the dust of the trade,
Storms and lightning, the evil.  Return inevitable,
Returned desired, the feather floats softly home.

Keepers of the time hold the harps, and pluck the strings,
Sending the resonance of the future forward, and back
In the listeners ear, plotting every move, filling
The voids and molding, shaping, creating the destiny.

The sounds first pure, then impure, a learned amateur
Taking the expected mistakes in playing new notes,
Leading, guiding, misdirecting, sounds so close
To perfection, so close to tragedy.

Keepers of the time hold the harps, each listener
Discerning the tones and changes, the falling of a key,
The breaking of a crescendo, winds swept with music;
The calm of the pianissimo, direction to the end.

Something has changed. Always, things change, not seem to
Nor feel like, but do, change.  In this grasp of feeling that, no those,
Changes, there are questions that come, come with it that mean so
Much today and mean so little when the thinking is changed again.

Each day there are so many things that remain the same, only to change.
The wind, the weather, the sunlight rips across the sky, making life hot,
Only to be replaced by the rains and the torrent of falling from the sky,
With winds blowing birds, people, white papers and blue.

The sun sets at five thirty today, five thirty two tomorrow, and it
Comes up on the like, but never the same schedule, and each
Minute, though sixty seconds of time, seems different and changing,
Minutes adding up to hours, hours adding up to days, never the same.

The food that is eaten, the touch of romance, the hatred of feeling,
The time of solace, and prayer, or thinking that makes each one
Feel they want to be a part, of this ever-changing world that makes
The solid one snap and break, the weak one be strong, the heart, beats on.