citrus stripping away the pain
painted across my face
while subjected to a world
of linen skinned
with denim daydreams
laced & lined
in lavender leaves.

rain dance on my grave
where i lay still praying for rain
from heavens that hawks circle
wings cutting through winds
gliding on the air waves
perching steady where mockingbirds
pester with their imitation games

"all in due time"
says the sparrow
walking on the telephone line
sticking to the path
visible in plain sight.

"all in due time"
says the willow
waving in the winds
whistling sweet songs
to the audience of kids.

"all in due time-"
says the blind Pharaoh
"all will be mine"
held up by hands of slaves
to preserve this blood divine.

"all in due time"
says the hero
holding his ground
standing like a martyr
among the bombs that drop
on each and every town.

all in due time

full moon peaks beyond bare branched trees
rising with the tides on a dark unstarry sky.
all ships ebb
all ships flow
underneath the variable moonlit glow.
satin & silk
creamy filled ivory
still we're on the brink
of what? we will see.

where do i fit within your will?
why do i seek constant thrill?
how much longer until i am ill?
what do i hear? it sounds so shrill.
to know the answers, what must i ****?
maybe that's the destiny- i must fulfill.

how am i to know
what bricks must be laid?
when the game has been played-
which seeds should be sown
what garden must be grown?
will this house still stand to show?
there's really no way for me to know.
- - -
if i am the question-master,
i am Father Time's slave
for he holds all the answers
but chases only his own grave
- - -
there's nothing to be done,
save reclining in space-
while trying to become one
with this Mother Earth's place,
where lives her many daughters
and also her Sun
under which we lay
-sparkling & suffering-
there's nothing to be won.

open the history books
& dive right in.
live between the lines
of what they called sin.

see the secret language
spoken with love.
in the name of peace and justice:
know what must be won.

there comes a moment
when the printer lags-
but it's waiting for you
to choose what's had.

now paint the pages we'll read in our futures,
write the songs to be sung in tomorrow's lectures.
the colors and melodies are of your choosing
but don't forget the wise old, saying:
our children reap
their parents' sowings.