Come on, kiss me and please shuts up.
Don't leave me alone, i'm cold.
Come on, and stay quiet.
Why lie? We are alone.

To be honest, I'm not here to be liked.
I'm hurts and i'm afraid,
I'm not here to love you either.

I saw the depths of your heart,
That leads us to nothing.

Leaves lit for the ghosts.
We are good in your home, come on.
If you want to play we can expect the worst.

Glasses of wine.
I have nothing to tell you.
Come and kiss me.
Please.
That leads us to nothing.

Awake, awake my little Boy!
Thou wast thy Mother’s only joy:
Why dost thou weep in thy gentle sleep?
Awake! thy Father does thee keep.

“O, what land is the Land of Dreams?
What are its mountains, and what are its streams?
O Father, I saw my Mother there,
Among the lillies by waters fair.

Among the lambs clothed in white
She walked with her Thomas in sweet delight.
I wept for joy, like a dove I mourn—
O when shall I return again?”

Dear child, I also by pleasant streams
Have wandered all night in the Land of Dreams;
But though calm and warm the waters wide,
I could not get to the other side.

“Father, O Father, what do we here,
In this land of unbelief and fear?
The Land of Dreams is better far
Above the light of the Morning Star.”

True criminal, I sold my soul and stole it back.

Plot a course through downtown doors
then drift along the concrete shores
of asphalt oceans navigated
          under stars
          imitating
     broken curbside glass--
     over crunching gravel miles
          measured in half-hours
and meted out in heavy, fogging breaths
          and squinting, midnight eyes...

Counted out the blocks, counted steps
and concrete squares by metered
three-four thoughts dancing across
     reflected skylines, just behind the eyes.

Each step's a held breath,
each footfall a prayer on crumpled paper,
each set of shoulders, a hanger for...

                                        coats are homes
                                             for hands
                                    rolling up in pockets
fishing for some solid anchor,
sinking into years of walks and silent words like these.

                                   * * *

Listing hard, adrift for years
     water-logged and pocked--
                    no anchor--
shredded sails and leaning masts
                    tell stories
                  of deck fires:
                   leaping rats,
             and charred strakes

Clear deck,
               empty hold,
                              abandoned helm.
                     this coat's Atlantic fog.
Frayed rigging like cobwebs stretch
          down and across
like lines on faces aged by the frost
          on midnight walks.

Strike the colors, mate...
Admit you're lost.

The long journey
Through uncharted waters
Found you floating in the horizon
A discovery not of new shores
Or precious minerals
But an enticement
of irresistible Beauty
We float in unison
We float with  purpose
We unravel simple truths
That lie behind
Our mystery
Of New Beginnings

My fingers reach out
To my left
Searching gently for
Your  missing contours
That  radiate as shoulders
Your missing contours
That dip as a waist
Your missing contours
That arch over me as arms
Your missing contours
That are the strength in your legs
Your missing contours
That is a chest full of passion

My fingers retreat in defeat
But they never abandon you.

Poetry is a quirk of the soul
A seamless song of connections
Where the word rules its truth
And  its spirit encounters you

The Wire Tree
Walking through a dim lit wood
The far off scent of firewood and nosetalgia  
creeps up my back like an old Army Blanket
A shade appears before me
Without words I follow
Further and further
The translucent green shade leads on
I come to a great oak tree
A very old strand of barbed wire
appears to be melted into the tree
It is very dark now
the shade is gone
In these woods
Man's boundaries
Meet
Nature's patience