Life is about change.
Sometimes it's painful.
Sometimes it's beautiful.
But most of the time it's both.
Sometimes you keep a lot
to yourself because it's
difficult to find people who
            understand.

But never regret being a good
person, to the  wrong people
because your behavior says
everything about you, and
their behavior says enough
            about them.

Love doesn't keep score.It
wipes the record clean each day.
It says good  morning to today
and goodbye  to yesterday.

Some people want material things,
me, I just want peace, happy times
            &  people to love.

The mind will not always remember
exactly what happened, but the
heart will always remember the
                  feeling.
                                  ­                                                     Jon York   2019

Books devour the silence

that weighs down inside

like bright little creatures

they dream and breath

in their cosy little worlds

until each page sizzles

with a human touch

We are not rude and impolite

It’s the lacking of genuineness

The world has been so unkind

We refused to acknowledge the kindnesses

What contract
binds my desire
to righteousness?

Oh, that righteousness must be oblivious to such fiction,
for Love is not calculated,
and no mortal could account its worth
being limited in time.
Therefor, should I languish to attain such love?
Or is even suffering necessary?
Let it be subtracted from life, and then see.

To release the unwholesome,
the unwholesome,
which has a life of its own
and flutters like a nightbird...
It is so limber,
It should exceed my grasp.
Or else, let it be some cloud that casts a shadow on the ground. Who would service thee in such a way?

So simple, to walk to heaven.

An ego is a comet burning up inside my atmosphere,
So if I ever buy a ******* chandelier, take me back a year -

To coffeehouses in the autumn with the falling leaves,
To cottonmouth up in the morning when I yawn from sleep,
To background jazz and tonals from the saxophone,
    Cut the vocals but leave the rest of the act alone,
To trees in full bloom that I've barely even ever seen,
    Eternally convinced they're only semi-evergreen,
To all the melodies spilling out so cleanly as,
    I look around at a sea of woolen beanie hats,
        The only kid who's not colour matched with the foliage,
        The only kid who's so unattached that he notices,
To that kid on the benches, sitting, scribbling sketches,
To the rhythm of set lists on a ritalin head trip,
To that girl in the booth, who brought a pile of cards,
    No concern, wouldn't move, getting snide remarks,
To that smell as the coffee's wafting across the room,
    Not being bothered and nodding off from the solitude.