Our lady now gone
She's taken her leave

No tricks now
Nothing up the sleeve

I feel a great heartache
But now it's alright

She's a survivor
She's gonna be fine

Given a task
I know she'll complete it

This isn't the end
But just the beginning

Dedicated to
dr. B. Dixon, Ph.P (Philosopiae Poeta).*

You, Poet, define yourself as a
"'Meat and Potatoes' -kinda guy."
We were speaking of food
But I see that you eat
With your writing-hand.

You, Poet, write like a
Quitting smoker
That stands with his very last
Smoke in his mouth -lighter
In hand. Frozen; carving a statue
Of the moment. For himself.
From himself. For all to see.

You, Poet, are the wind thrusting
Confidence from under the wings of
Angels, down to assist the
Flapping of little, pen wielding
Ducklings at take-off.
You are a devil of a gentleman; an
Arms open welcomer
In this realm of written renderings.

You, Poet, are an agent of king
Poem Himself.
As convincing and encouraging as a
.357 barrel imprint on your forehead
To remind yourself to keep writing
-Just always keep writing; just
Write.
If you guarded the Gates of Hell,
You'd still give good meaning to
Words like 'Warm Welcome'...

You, Friend, make poets feel
Like the true
Rock Stars of the Universe
That they all
Truly
Are.

we have stopped,
for coffee and to leave Tod
with friends.

the comfort of their arms
open to our need is
immeasurable.

we walk down to the lake
and the quiet beauty soothes

the waterdragons, with the
scurrying, play brings a smile, as do the ***** wagtails with their
come-hither look-at-me
i'm better than, fred astaire, dance.

but beneath it all,
lies the quicksand of sadness
waiting to grasp at our feet again and again...

we must continue on,
leaving our boy in good hands, we go ......