Eyeing the dawn rising from the East
          in the back seat of a car
The mist from the fields fills the country roads
        with precious calm
Time has slowed to a sweet molasses flow,
like the hovering mist
        over the road
She plays a lullaby of Bow and Arrows,
          a broken guitar
Behind her,
         I wrap my arms
around her shoulders, holding her gently firm
       in my heart
Softly singing to her ear
through a tangle of auburn hair,
over the mountains and
        under the stars
as the illuminated plum purple starts to glow blue orange, we drive
           for the dark

We speak without speaking
As two lovers should
Your eyes are like fire
And they burn me like wood

I pull up your dress
Like you know that I could
As I see my heart's desire
Between your soft thighs
Sweet gypsy woman, love me tonight!

Now you travel the world
searching for home
Wondering all the while
How you'd grown cold
Longing for days
when you still felt free
But now that you're here Gypsy
Come be with me!

Stay with me Gypsy,
there's nothing to say
I'll love you all night
Yea, I'll love you all day!
Lay with me Gypsy
Feel my love strong
And in my arms I'll hold ya
And do ya no wrong

Rock with me Gypsy
Feel my hips sway
As the tidal of emotion
sweeps us both away!
Laugh with me Gypsy
For in our hearts' we know
That as one we are together
And time matters no more

Where O' Where
Does the Lion Roam
On the mossy hillsides He sings
to flowing water, arpeggio chatter,
in a shaded chamber hall of green
He sings to the sounds of acorns crashing
onto the leafy forest floor
Fallen Autumn Colors dance all around us
Pirouetting through air to rocky shore
The wooden logs bow to take their hallowed headed rest
As angled current sings slapping songs of merry ***,
sliding over verdant brown beds

Creatures Love to find a secret message
Sent from a stranger God
a ring tucked on wooden bough
a peacock feather lodged in bark


KERPLOOP

into the water
another acorn splops

Mirror, mirror, on the wall, tell me what suits,
Soft natural highlights, or strong punk roots?
Auburn red or beach blonde hair,
Brunette with greens, or short blunt rare?

Mermaid midnight old balayage blues,
Grey ombré curled with lilac hues?
Lemon yellow paint or neon spice,
Purple color that matches my hazel eyes!

Tousled, textured, twirled and twined,
We could take it to the front, or let it all behind.
Black hair with beautiful mahogany dye,
Fringes looking pretty every day passing by.

Straight hair with an asymmetrical bob,
Lips painted red, formal and hot.
Tie buns and bows with colorful clips,
Grow pink hair long, till they reach my hips.

Fish tail braid like a Boho chic,
All pastel shades spread, across the width.
Blonde and bright, they are in my sight,
Soon to be a celebrity, wearing them uptight.

Burgundy wine perm, crazy long,
Every hair color has a song.
There are chances that they may look all wrong,
But hey! I'm not scared to just play along!

A poet falls in love much too easily,
But it is never easy to love a poet.

Songbirds enjoy a diet of variation;
Beetles and worms rarely make good friends.

But seeds spring up where they will.

I fell out of time
into wavery scarves of seconds
glittering of snowflake anticipation, and
minutes of quiet purring joy.
Tonguing thickening clouds of breathsteam
he has always been a familiar stranger;
every joint is a champagne cork, white
marble smile that bubbled

over wooden lips. Tell a story
in ten words or less, tap fingers pointed like guns
twice against her hot temple, smile
and half a tooth still ******. Tell a story with one
word, bang, and sock away the other nine.
Turn to a cat and say, I’ve got your tongue.
We sat together on our heels in the smoke
and snowfall, the plumed weapon of breath

melting. Cars slide into the lot, ice over easy.
The alcohol tasted like soap. It is not enough
for maybes and not-know-hows---grating
cheepcheap common sense, fail me now.

Maybe you didn’t write LOVE on her
battered wrist but LIVE instead,
maybe you stole all the magnetic a’s
off the fridge, you’re not the one
who highlighted instructions on a macaroni
box, so you broke all the chalk and wrote
the name of your childhood dog above the sink.

Maybe “hostile” is a fuzzed blue comforter
three months past laundry day, every lint
ball sharp as the word “cut”, the word “*****”,
the word “scream”. Maybe I’m naive, sentimental, but
I believe in a common kindness
like the common cold running thin
in threads of worn-out heart chambers.