Buttoned into wrinkles
Of time and mind

Like a melody
On a tin whistle

A lingering sense
Of otherworldliness

Hardwired for folktales
Oral traditions filled

With mythical traditions
And practical wisdom

Time, like a whistled tune
Blown and gone, remains

Amidst haunting,
Faint memories

And your green isle

Pretty lips on a pretty boy
But those pretty lips will
Never bring me any joy

Because his lips belong
To his pretty boy-toy
And it rankles me ‘cause

He used to be mine

(This poem is not autobiographical.  It is about someone I used to know.)

Like a stone in my shoe

I cannot help but think of you
Leaving me sore and bruised.
Then when I feel I might forget
It is there with painful intent yet.

And I am unable to shift it or to lift it.
Although I have loved with no regret
That painful stone continues on
And Memory never leaves me alone.

In the end, though, it should be Friend
For my comfort comes from the stone
Because you lie cold in the ground.
No longer able to come home.

Serene, float among green growth,
Buds desire to open, join the flotilla.
Gentle one, you are like the waterlily
Which grow across the surface,
The still surface of my pond.

I am the sun setting in spectacular glory.
You are the warm Gulf waters caressing
As you wash along my ragged shoreline
Lovingly lapping late into a humid evening.

I hear the soft whooshing, smell the brine,
Watch the shorebirds returning home,
Hear the earnest, varied calls and cries,
As they with singular intent soon disappear.

How dear you all are to me.

There will be birds
Flying through my dreams
Diving like ballerinas
Dancing on bright wings
There will be birds seen

As they cross the sky's path
From one place to the next pass
To carry secretly away the past
And lead to the future's next
Birds will be there,

To always fly me free

I see your beautiful mouth as you edge forward.
Your lips open, almost caressing the mic
And then honey pours out.

Your lyrics curl around those sitting here
Like smoke from a lone cigarette in a tray
And bind us all together.

Eyes close with tender inflection
Dragging us into his pain, again and again.
The music ends and his pain is gone

But will resurface the next time he sings.