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.

There was
A man who
Peered through
His glasses
And saw
The
Light
Around him
Grow, and grow
And it all became
Larger, and soon he
Felt his life had gotten
Out of hand and there was
So little he could do and he
Thought, maybe if
I could bring this
Light down then
It might work
Out that I
Could
Bring
Myself
Down
And be
As little
As my foot.

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.

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.

Faith,
Through all,
Means much
More than
Being buried
Alone.

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.

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.

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.

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".

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

Can you watch, can you see?
Everything you ask for is there,
It is just a little bit of stuff,
Reach out and grab it.
No, there is not anything in your way
Just your own self, and your own pride, busting away
At your resolve, making it all feel like little pieces of nothing
That came together and make something big, bigger than
What you have looked for, but still, just vapors in the sun,
A little bit of gaseous quality to those things that stop
You from finding things, that it would take, to make  you
Happy.
Then again, no, you wouldn't be happy.  You would simply
Have more, and then,
You would be you.  All over.
Again.

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.

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.

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......

With pleasure comes the grasp of Time's remarkable hands,
As they surround us with their touch and feeling and warmth,
Grasp us in their skin, wrinkled and old, some broken and tender
To those of us that have a feeling on the inside. They are cold and broken
To the ones whose souls have already served their time, and have died
Alive, to be something no one wants, no one needs, no one will have.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Cold plasters blast on bare skin, feeling their way along,
Finding the difference in write and wrong and right, can
All lay forth with terrible meaning, across words type on the pages
So well, each checked for spelling each checked for use
Each used in disregard of the meaning, or the thinking, of it all
As it lays there, being so resplendent in its throw and touch.
Feel it words, each one losing shape before the last one, each
one taking the grasp of the situation at hand
Making it all look and smell and be so very wrong.
Sleeves too long, then too short, or paper thin in their
Covering, making the rain of the tile feel wet as down
From a droning pillow, all pasted about that face
And its mouth, and soul.

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.