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.

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.

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.

A Poem
Ten words
In length;
How do I
Say…

It is there
      all those things
           they said would come
                  have entered and found us,
                         hovering here waiting on them,
                                seeing them for the first time, in here
                                      making the rest of it seem so simple, so
                                              mislaid, so finding of the feeling wrong.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

You can see the sky is soft and blue
And the sun rises slowly, bringing up
The wispiness of clouds, just passing through
You hear a bird singing, its call a gesture
Of food, of shelter, of a limb softer,
A slight wind blows through the trees,
And you know the morning is here, again.
You’ve felt this love, this sterling feeling
This huge and wonderful crush, as day breaks
Your there, and your son makes noises,
And writings, and finds a way to incidentally touch
Your heart, with news; of his son, or his wife, or his day.
Your daughter is there as well, in the morning, awake
Because she wants too, because she does not, and
Her husband is on her mind, and you are, together
On the thoughts of both of them once more.
The morning breaks, beautiful this time, no rain,
No cold, no winds of damage, as you breathe.

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.

It
Cannot
Be
By itself,
It must
Be done
Together.

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 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Roads seem narrow, but so are the cars,
Sitting on the wrong side, feeling like the whole world is coming toward me
Feeling at a total loss for helping, or seeing,
The best thing is to watch, and look, and see.
The day is crisp and feeling a little green, and different greens show
And over a hundred greens are there, on the side of that hill,
Above the green waters of the lake, each one soft, and bright,
Covered up moments ago by the mornings fog, as the boats
Lay within their moorings, each a white color, with a bit of the green,
And the trees seem delighted as the sun makes its way out,
The water lapping at the shore, kissing it in little motions
Seeing the bottom, with its growth of green,  looking back.

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

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

I
Cannot
See the number
As it waits for me
To come its merry way
Counting down the footsteps
As it says "come on, come on, and
Find your way down my face to where
You'll find the worst and best of me all in
One" and I hear it say it, but I cannot see it
For no matter what it says I am alone on the point
This pointed arrow, searching for the day time
Searching for the night time and it races
Quickly away, leaving its voice in the
Air, all the while covering it face
Making the feeling bad and
Creating the night again
While trying to find
The number so
When it goes
So must
I.

You’ve Been Gone
There falls a feeling of being lost,
When one is lost without the pieces
When there are few, no, fewer than few
Who understand, or pretend to understand
Or who can understand, the selfless feelings
That permeates my soul, and my mind, and makes me
Lost; alone, feeling left behind here
In this feeling of those getting larger
And spreading their wings across more deserts
Finding the sun as it calls, the clouds as they swarm
The raw, passionate, beauty of it all
Leaving me to feel and find that which I have felt
Fought for, and so wanted to come true
Wondering the loneliness of it all
Bring me back
Here.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.