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.

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.

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.

The lights through the windows
Seems brighter in their way,
In bringing forth the daytime
And feeling it on its way.
A walk through the cemetery
Seems to find its peace, as stone and marble
Form the days own face,
Like marks at the surface, each stone states ahead,
The eastern sun rising, making the day
Turn and find one pausing,
But to keep the tortured soul abreast
Life's dreams stay floating, and we
Rise and make life grand.

The weather seemed better from the day before
While the sun was backed by low clouds,
And the wind was getting a brisk touch,
The cold on the fringe, the snap of a finger,
The feeling could all be turned round,
The snow, piling the roadways
Feeling it not far from here,
With November upon us (November can you believe?)
And Christmas, that 'time of the year'
Each date, each principal, each feeling of time
Passes quick and full and blows by like the breeze
With a smile for the things you can do,
A happy feeling for the things you will do
A snag, but a feeling of 'I tried' with the things you cannot do,
All this, all these, all of it wells inside you and feels
Like the rush of the wind on a blustery day
With a feeling that somewhere, home, you know it's there
One can feel, your words, your skin, your heart
And can feel it with a smile,
Can feel it with a warmth, and a protective arm
Can wrap around you, and in the silence,
You know, it is there.

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.

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.

The castle walls are feeling thick and formidable,
This window seems blank, as night begins to fall,
And the fires of those outside burns in the still darkness,
The moth, flies, flutters by, inside then out,
As it feels a piece of the moment, fading away,
Knowing that in its reclusive movement, it will find its way
Awash, with knowing  much, trying to find its way back,
Outside, to the fresh air, where stagnation hasn't set
Where the feeling is still fresh, where the night moves.

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 soft touch of morning
Rises to meet the late breaking day
Covered up and clouded, and looking lonely.
Dark birds and their shadows fly low, and South, in a hurry,
Sounds are loud and crack the mornings air, with their breaking,
And ice pops  and water wheezes beneath the shallow pools,
With air moving quietly up and out,
And winters grass riffles, with the cold air moving in and around,
And the seed of this morning, that shall become the plant of the day,
Can see the sun, and feel its' warmth, even in the cold.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

Sitting in the Irish home of the man
I had traveled about a fourth the world to see,
Eating the dinner that had been prepared, by his Irish wife, at their table.
Eating, just the three of us, together in their Irish home, with the Irish grass
Growing outside. Their Irish son, just home from being abroad for over a year, came in
Said hello, told me welcome in coming, told stories of his time in Africa,
And Australia, telling it in tones a little less loud than normal,
His mother and father
And me, at the table, drinking Irish whisky, and Italian wine.

Tiredness took the son, and left us there alone,
Left me there alone, to listen
As the father spoke, in tones so gentle, and feeling quiet, as he told the stories
Of racing cars, and travels to Africa, and Egypt and Israel, and the boats he took
Across. There was food on them, beautiful produce laid out, fresh fruit, and breads
Salmon, bagels, fresh tea, cakes, and everything good on that buffet.
Till that second day, when the buffet was laid out exactly as the day before, and the
Third, and the fourth, and the boat lay in for supplies somewhere in the Middle East,
He managed a crossing to the shore, off the boat, away from the buffet.

More wine, around the table, his wife glowing and seeming to be more than happy,
My hands feeling like they were laced with lead, the drink finding its way in, and he
Being from Ireland, told the story, how the King of Ireland, way, way back in time
Lived there, on his property, rallied his troops there, and told them all, he was to conquer
Those from the North.  His voice in a mere whisper now, the clock making its rocking
Click, much louder than he spoke, and his Irish blood  through his veins, he told
Of the Kings’ run, through the shallow part of the lake, around the enemy, which
He conquered handily, and kept southern Ireland clear and fresh, and forever separate.
These last words, came in barely a whisper, all of us leaned in, all of us, in Ireland.

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.

I would not see it become so sad,
or feel it all run into a mire of rejection,
nor could I admit disappointment,
lost in this feeling of being, around so
many people, and being so completely alone.

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.

Lost in plain sight,
He felt the weight of the world
Upon his shoulders there,
The weight of untold fate
And of knowing barely enough to survive,
Of making his way so carefully
Of marching slowly in time with the beat,
It was there, but it was gone,
It seemed real, it seemed like vapor,
It was everything he had hoped it would be
But now it was lost, lost in plain sight
To where he could not see.

If I could I would take you
under the limbs of trees
and tell you. I would take
your hands in both of mine,
below the sticks and hills
where moss clings
to the curve of rocks. Part of us
would not fail. As light
moves through the sun through water. Though water
is carefree. Waves crash. From those,
the last drop of misty morning, contains
enough life to populate a world. The world
shivers – listen to it. Your voice
is a stream spilling into the sea, or nighttime
rushing into a black-lit sky. Like coming home alone,
the house is cold. Who is there but someone, you once knew
and were not expecting
but were hoping to see again. And you can have wine
and cake left from the party.
In the most unexpected places,
you wait. Within a few years
we won't remember the pact: to confess
nothing, not to lean
over the edge of formation.

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.

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.

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.

It is a startling thing
To find the reality in the mood,
To see the nearness in the attitude,
All of this like a dyers pen, writing softly on the soul,
Feeling the damp cloth beneath, feeling the warmth
Of the body,
As it finds itself,
With each stroke, and turn, and guided groove
Of the pen,
Which rests so gently against
The cloth,
Brushing it, touching it, making the feel of it
So soft, so gentle, with a touch of roughness
That makes it real.

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.

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.

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.

Hold me still.  Keep me focused.*
Yes Love, Yes.
I can feel it.
Yes Love, yes.  I am here.
Today.  Keep it in.  Hold it.
Yes Love, I know it, I know because you’ve told me.
Keeping the words soft.  Keeping it easy.
Yes Dear, I know the badness is here, yes Love.
Keep me close to her, keep me close.
Yes Love, it is your face, your heart, your hands.
Gritting my teeth, but holding on, hold on.
Yes Love, I see you there, hurting, Love, that physical hurt.
Hanging, hanging, hanging, keeping it here.
Yes Dear, I would make it better if I could.
The feeling a tear, brush aside, feel it going.
Yes Love I will hold you, maybe not, I am right here.
The very skin of my neck hurts, the very hairs hurt.
Yes Dear Sweet Love, I can get you a glass of water, a towel…
My face and neck are red, and hurting, my chest is hurting.
Yes Dear I heard you talking, Yes, Love, it hurts, I know, because you have said.
Nothing in experience, all in survival.
Yes Love, close your eyes, and sleep now Love.
Hanging, tears will not fall here, not now, not for her.
Sleep now Love.

I woke this morning, a little after five;
Thinking and wondering and worrying
And wanting you to be alive
And well, and seeing the new breeze
On the the air, as it brings thoughts
Of forgiveness, and keeping the heart straight,
With feelings that seem old-in-days, and young
In spirit, calm in giving, yet firm in forever.
Your heart is big, my eyes weak with need for sleep,
All the while, wanting so desperately, the best
For you.

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.

Watch out carefully for those you see around you, and keep it there,
to feel as though the ones who look and see are generally not looking
or seeing, but rather, that is their blank look. The ones that seem to
be looking away, keeping down their glances, always tucking
that chin softly down, and looking at the table, they are not the ones
you should be worried about either.

For they are looking their ways from the aspect that no one sees their look,
no one sees them. If you are being careful, watching the people around, looking
at their faces, and eyes, and seeing them be there, together with you.

Then, and only then, will you notice the bearded man; the gray beard
with the gray, half haired head, the balding man, that seems not to pay attention,
who seems to be outside the circle, without looking around himself
caught up in his own distractions, feeling the inside of his mind.

His age spots bring forth knowledge and intellect, that grabs one
and makes them completely whole within, then that is the one,
that is the person, the feeling, the driven one, you must watch out for
because,  before you know it, he'll have you, in his mind.

Music. Listening as my feet are on the pavement,
Avoiding small rocks, and cracks in the street
Trying to see past the cars, and the wind, and the
Leaves that line the walk, with music in my ears
Playing the songs, no my songs, one by one, as I walk.

The wind is extra cool, no its cold, across my face, and
This sweatshirt, and sweatpants cut out some of the
Coolness, as they sing in my head, beautiful songs
Some of them classic in tone, others classic for being
The rest in their own flush way, music to walk too today.

Air beats in from the lake, bringing goose-flesh to the neck
While upward steps, both long and challenging, beat down
The legs, and muscles made by this beating have strengthened
And even though no one cares to look, the legs have grown
Strenuous in their tender job of carrying this body along.

But the music, the anthems of song, the generous feelings
The women who take everything from man and make him cry
The bottle, the drive, the choices, all add up, and the singers
Each one driving the sympathies of days past, and of nights spent late
In the way only they can, no it must be could; for they all now are gone.

Embers burn with red reminders, of heat not yet gone,
With browns and blacks and whites falling from the yellowed mass,
Crooked lines soaring upward, waiting to be broken,
Brought down again in breaking easy falls.
The noise is pretty, a kind of whistle, with cracks and peeling
Sounds, wrapped around the wood, the limbs, the listener
All in one, with the darkness outside growing blacker
And the stillness becoming more and more still,
With eyes locked firmly on the light
Of the simple fire,
Going out.

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.

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.

Come and find me, in the morning,
While the gentleness of an angry day,
Hides among the colder inner workings,
And steals the sunshine from the clouds
Up there, before the bird flies,
Before the worm sticks his head up,
And the grass is still wrapped in the night before.
Come and find me, please, oh please,
Lay your head down on my chest,
And play your silly game of tempted fire,
Let me hold you there in my arms,
Put your face so close to mine, each breath
Like the day; could-have-been an also-ran,
And keep your fingers soft, full, grace-like and your hair
Lying all crooked on your head, on your face, curling
Over and lying down against the skin, that touches
Me, and holds me closer still,
While you play your game, and talk your talk,
And the windows open up, and the grass finds its head,
Each posture, each movement, each time
You fill the grace, and feel the feeling straight from me
As you keep your heart, your dangling ready heart,
So closely held.

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.

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.

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".

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.

My kids are gone from home and friends
have left as well. It is all
too big. I'm forced
to start in a little patch.
If I had my way...
But each life needs love
it cannot use.
Yes, it is me.
It's the invisible me who won't forget
and who, you hold, without touching.

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.

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.

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.

God, who can tell me the difference? as if
I even care about the difference, I know because I feel
The difference, I can feel it, life is so real
Because what difference, does it all matter…?  What? What can
Be the reason for a difference, when there can’t be any difference
In me. It is there, I mean, I can see it, smell it,
The Doctors told me it is there, and now I cannot see the difference
In whether or not, I **** well take it, smoke it, drink it,
Hell at the difference!  I will not be any different except happy, except
Sliding down the path of feeling good, even though for a short time,
Even though for anytime, what difference is there anyway, does it, will it all make?

   (an easy feeling of sliding, so downward, so fast, falls on me, falls
   like the head of a pin, looks up and sees me, as it feels so **** good
   with just a glimpse of lakeshore looking backward, over my shoulder
   as I sit here. no television. the sound blaring. and it is off. and the window
   is down, and I am riding. in the car that is not there. better off.  the distance
   looks crowded, and feels so pretty and nice. and life is mine and there are things
   that make me look. this way.  then that. and make it all blow the dust off
   and leave. me here. crying and feeling your arms. while your gone. and feeling
   her arms wrapped around me, and knowing that she will likely *****.
   and moan and gripe, but who cares because now it is gone,.and an extra two
   on top of two. and that makes four, god it makes four. makes four. makes four…)

     *   Who can tell what sleep I have had, nothing no more than a minutes sleep
         Is why my hair looks the way it does, and make-up is not made up and
         The sleepy feeling grabbed me strong and put these jeans upon my body
         And they are mine, they fit, I swear, and the sweater fits too, it is not his it is mine
         Besides, I feel like hell and death have run together and have clouded me,
        And taken away my judgment, and left me here alone, can you see me?
      I know it, I know it, it makes sense as dogs make sense to lying in the grass
    And birds make sense playing in the limbs, and as I make sense, making sense
   Of the feelings that are lost to me now, and please, please, please, I do not
   Need the sitter, or someone watching me, or watching me die, please
  I just need something, a little thing, a little more, just a little more.