Coming and going,
never stand still,
except to smell the roses,
or flowers, or the light waft
of shampoo in that special somone's hair,
leaving and arriving,
n'er you rest your weary head,
yet wrest yourself
from the test that is life,
are you in tune with the
call of the loon,
entering and exiting
through doors (of opportunity)
and windows (of more opportunity),
our lives are lived in transit,
that's what it is,
oh to be able to visit,
if only a handful of you,
break bread together,
laugh at the awkward silences,
make friendships out of strangers,
while being a stranger in strange lands,
because,
anyone of us,
could no longer
post powerful prose,
spin a rhyme on a dime,
love somone other than ourselves, for the thousandth poem,
leave lines of self-loathing, cutting
into the darkness of a dark room,
with the white computer light of
a forgivenss, friendship and a family
of poets and writers,
all in transit, here is to crossing paths, or pens
and let the ink fall where it may,
if I was close enough ...to offer an open hand.
Feeling a bit off, you are all quite special to me what you write and what I read.