A woman of substance

I'm sceptical of the Dutch
One of them stole my beloved
He was a painter
Made her beautiful on canvas
And she fell in love
I wrote a poem on a torn
Piece of paper-
And I’m not a Lutheran-
Nailed it on her door
The usual stuff of the aching heart
The painter got arthritis
In his hands  
Could not hold a paint brush
She sent him to nursing home
And now she smiles at me

The rose speaks
Of love silently
In a language known
Only to the heart

I sat beside
the waters edge,
and pondered
the life in the riverbeds.
I wondered how
it all began,
the fish,
the tides,
and the small
grains of sand.
It seems to be
a question to me,
just how exactly
it all came to be.
It's complex,
yet simple,
and began
with a ripple,
from the birds,
to the turtles,
to the small
little minnows.
This world is a circle,
a never ending cycle.
What lives always dies,
but secured with a tie,
will return back to live,
only to return back to die.

it was always the jazz music

that soothed me

in the nights of summer.

but it wasn't as good as

the late night conversations

and chamomile tea.

all i can remember now

is that faint smell of

mint perfume;

that made me feel ditzy

midnight thoughts and wasted eyes
waiting for the sun to rise
owls are howling, so depressed
the morning light will be our guest

dosen’t matter if we’re drunk or sober
wasted nights in late october
leaves are floating down to earth
feeling like we’re nothing worth

You may say giving in is easy
But I swear it's not
You may see surrender as the way of living
But I swear it's not
You are going to support yourself
No matter who stops you
You are going to be you
No matter who scold you
You are not going to change
No matter who ask you
You be you
You do you
You are who you are