It’s not about how high you fly
But how long you can stay in the sky.

Try

So, even if you fall and die
At least you had flown.

Ducks and geese and floating feathers
Falling amidst the shimmering sparkles on the bay;
All to the tune of children’s laughter
As they spin and twirl and play.

When I see you again

I'll choke back the years . . .

of fears
of tears
of needing
of wanting
of not having
of not knowing

And you will explain
What actually happened.

There were stories about frangipani blossoms
and monsoon rains and teatime and English gardens,
the smell of mandarin oranges being pealed.

These beautiful, poetic reminiscences fill my soul
just as the humidity wraps around me, now,
as frog croaks filling the moist night air.

Looking back we tend to forget . . .

Across the street
The heliotrope and roses meet.
Entwined they gather sweetly
Lovingly clinging in embrace.
Sigh.  I watch them.  I slow my pace.
If flowers can love as in this case,
Why cannot men of every race?

I just cannot see
Why you won't open to me?
Why put up that wall
When you know that I'm not tall?
Yet, though I am just small
Still, I can see it all
When I get a glimpse
into your wounded heart.

The heat of summer is heavy;
A spider has hung a dragline;
In it a lone leaf dangles and spins

Amidst the humid breeze.
A rattle and hum soon rise as insects  
Calls out, "Beware! Beware, as you fly!"

For a silky trap awaits the foolish
Or the absent-minded soul
Quickly caught unawares.