The pantomime and
the pantograph,
that time we drew
the picture of a laugh

oh memory
spare me
from the folly
of remembering.

I called unclean
and the bell rang,
but the birds still sang
purely for the joy of it.

We can retrace those steps
like pages in a book we read,
we read again and indeed we
seed again to blossom when
the season beckons.

Among, or in dispersion thru,
The great misty and smoky view,
Of a springtime gaggles' morning peal
Sets the pageant as all seems surreal.

By candlelight, and hearthside fire,
With shadows dark out in the mire;
Which knocks me out if truth be said
When looking out by windows ledge.

I hear the windy banks call my name,
As I begin to drift, and start to dream,
Of all the passing most precious things
That I see, which do so have effect on me.

Ah, light! Beautifully strewn across the landscape of my soul's heart. My desire for freedom illuminating the sphere of my little big world bubble, casting shadows of fear away to where they belong in their spiral, circling the drain of no hope, clogging my madness and need to run from the precocious empty, which used to damage me so... I feel free today! Where did I used to go? They are gone from the circular despair and return in desperation, as such that cycle goes... clinging and growing inside my joy, as ego... but no more foes like lightning electrifying the compass of my one true soul. Flames we are, catching fire to the moth, assimilating within its flow, though we are like the butterfly, not the moth, transformed in representation of pillars made of salt... we are those pillars, the salt of the earth, guarding freedom, in hope... do we taste just so? Or shall we baptize in waters that float... why even worry? We cannot add to our canvass we create on to and fro, quo vadimus... where are we going? I now can and may answer that we are headed home, though not on our own, but through loving others as ourselves, all those with hearts of stone... Thus we shall say, 'Let there be Light! Or so the story goes...

As human beings
We have the potential
To do anything we set our minds to
Except for this moment in time
I feel as if the odds are stacked just slightly too high against me
As though sheer force of will just won't cut it this time
As much as I hate to think this way I fear it might be true

Opulence is a whisper
In a forest full
Of clouds
Subtlety is a shout
In this city
Of waning light

Drinking a cup of coffee
This fine early morning,
A wee little bird saw me,
And flew away scorning.

My sight ruffled feathers,
She didn't want me here,
She flew to the lil tethers
That held a flock so dear.

I laughed & even thought,
The nonsense such worry
In her brain had brought
To my mind, each birdie.

I never would hurt a bird,
But I can see the thoughts
Of Fear being hard wir'd
In their reason, tho I scoff.

I wanted to quietly admire,
Then they sang, all in choir;
Thanks for the seed I left her
In the ol pretty little chamber.