Inside a warm domicile
Cover up, hunker down.
Stay awhile, don't venture out
For the great black cloud
With an icy fist will come
To steal the sun for everyone

Du coeur je demande:
Of the heart, I ask
"Qu'est-ce qui ne va pas chez toi:
What is wrong with you?

Du als Objekt:
I asked you a question.
Du als Reflexivpronomen:
"Why aren’t you looking
at yourselves in the mirror?"
Pourquoi ne vous
regardez-vous pas dans le miroir?

"Vous n'avez pas l'air bien!"
You do not look well!
Du mit einem Nomen: "You idiot!"
"Les malades du cœur"
The sick heart,

"Ce cœur, notre cœur"
This heart, our heart,
de la regarder:
Look at it,
mon Coeur: my love.

Of the heart, I ask:
"What is wrong with you?"
I asked you a question.

"Why aren't you looking
at yourselves in the mirror?"
You do not look well!
"You idiot!"

The sick heart,
This heart, our heart,
Look at it, my love.

Can you feel it?
It started some years ago,
This bloat and rot.
And it is about to infect us all
With its putrid mass.
For you cannot put back
The fetid tissues in the corpse.

Relentless, Time’s tide
As it flows onward ever so fast.
Each second slips away,
Creating a moment passed.

This world turns, yet my heart
Stands still, a hollow echo
That your laughter used to fill.

The sun will set on another day
Alone in the sky, it will happily stay.
But not I.

The stars explode with brightness
But still, I feel alone, no longer known.
A page will flip as the calendar burns;

Each season changing in its hue
And with every breath, I think of you.
For life can no longer be the same.

(Inspired by a poem posted on FB without a title or a credit to who wrote the one I used for inspiration.  Do any of you recognize the premise?)

Tragic poets were often mocked
By comic poets during dramatic festivals.
Some travestied more than most.

They write to record.

Frequently shocked by the heresies
Put into the mouths of powerful men,
Many, too frightened to begin again

Commit political suicide.

Though racked and broken,
Bringing words of wisdom spoken
Like a prophet crying out in the wilderness.

With a reputation for cleverness, lo,
Thought to be vexatious by some, numb,
Carry on in a wasteland, with hums slow.

Hail the great lyric poets, those actual,
For the rhythms of an old poet, practical,
Are somewhat freer, more natural,

And filled with absolute truths.

1st draft
1.
She was like a juicy red apple unpicked
He could never resist

Each time he rode by he'd bite that apple
Reaching way up high

He returned, again and again
Until the day when

Nothing was left but core.


Final draft
2.
She was like a juicy red apple unpicked
He could never resist

Each time he rode by he'd bite that apple
Although for him hung way up high

He returned, again and again
Until the day when

Nothing was left but the core.

The scent of my love
Was rose and sandalwood
Placed in strategic locations.

Yours was patchouli,
Which you rubbed into
Your mustache and beard.

And with each kiss;
Each time we made love
We created our perfume,

The Scent of Our Love.

The scent of my love
Was rose and sandalwood.
Yours was patchouli,
Which you rubbed into
Your mustache and beard.
And with each kiss
We created our perfume,
The Scent of Our Love.

It started to rain, and a wind blew
It put me in a mood, I started
Thinking of you, a thing I never do,
Really.

I could hear the rumbling heavens move.
Do you remember how good it was
To make love during a thunderstorm?
I do.

The leaves on the trees rustled loudly,
A few sticks fell and hit the roof of the house.
I can never forget the pecan tree,
Remember?

It was heavy with its fruit in Autumn
As it stretched over our bedroom.
And every time the North winds blew
Nuts would hit the roof.

You would say “I love you”.
With each clank or bump, rumble, tumble,
They would roll down and I would get
An “I love you”!

And we would lay entwined cuddling.
Do you ever wish it were still true?
Now that we are both older,
I do.

The blue of his eyes swims and mingles in a deep sea of love.
A love that knows no bounds inside my red velvet heart.

How poignant it is to be punctuated with such drama and passion.
A full round moon smiles down watching lovers do what lovers do.

It is made to blush.

My love and I would bask in the sun.
And we would make love out of doors.
We would, under the grape arbor.

Love’s knot loosened, my gossamer bow,
In a sea of light our love voyage would flow.
It would begin and end under the grape arbor.

Based on a poem written in the mid-1990s, more than 30 years ago
I see myself, poor old soul;
Pages upon handwritten pages
Within dusty tattered notebooks;
I caress each word, each syllable,

“This one was for him and this one.
And this one, what passion then!
The pages burnt in his hand.  
Remember?  He often said so.

My thoughts then turn to the disks.
I knew back then, as I carefully
Saved each cherished line of
Our fluid dialog, I knew back then

The day would come when ‘they’
Would be relics from the past
Refusing any longer to give up
Their treasure.

This age-spotted wrinkled hand
Now resorts to albums in which
The printed pages were bound
So many years ago for this reason.

Any flames that once set aflame
The page has long been doused
By the wells of time, time whose
Spring is but a trickle now.

O, sweet honey-dewed words drip
From these pages, sticky, still sweet.
Drip on me for I desire to feel!
All need to be revived!

For we are now all old with time.
The pages yellowed, you dead,
The tech I used to save the writing,
Gone, no longer any use.

Yet, embers deep inside
Glow warm still for you
Within this withered womb.
And it can never be quenched.

I speak this to nothing but air.

I’m holding on for dear life.
Passing seasons have changed me
Causing me to flutter about in the wind.

My spring colors once ran bold and true,
But that, my love, was before I met you,
You, the Winter of my life.

Cold, cold, you.

If my heart had hands
Your name it would write.

If my head had arms
It would hold you with all might.

Since my heart and my head
Lead the way

My feet will carry me to you
Without delay,

Without delay, my love,
Should you but call me.

She rested upon his words.
Conversation-lips slip
Beneath to touch the
The painful realities of her
Loveless comforts.

The world was never real
To her.

She rested upon his strengths.
Restraining sinew knew
Of warmth, he offered up
To touch, to hold within her,
The leaps and bounds hope.

And,
This world was never so real.

We,
The nest.
I, the twigs,
You the branch.
Our eggs safe
Nestled within.
Until the day
Our fledglings fly.
With open hands
We cheer them
upward.

I reach up with fingertips
And gently touch your lips.
You, hovering above,
I beneath.

A myth I choose to kiss
As your tears drop
Into the palm of my hand.

And I gave myself to you
As our window on this time
Closed like a precious capsule.

Your heart opened wide,
Your gentle concern
Enveloped my heart forever.

Things could get very dark very quickly
But let's not call for a hearse just yet.

We're on a speeding freight train
Headed for the light at the end

Of a long and dark tunnel
Just keep your eyes on the prize.

We'll soon be blasting through
To the other side!

A sun the color of a bellini only neon was on the rise.
And it was well on its way to beautiful!  What a sun!

It was swimming in a pool of extra cherry in the O.J.

The world goes round and who knows when the start was.
It's just another day waiting for Paradise.

I'm not counting time, just making time count.

Clicking off the precious days of life,
And I'm having fun.  All the while knowing

My Paradise will soon come.

All free-born and wild

Into field stride
Nature's child
Barefoot run
- a peach
- a pear
- a plum

Bird song
Insect hum
Orchard fun for each
- a pear
- a plum
- a peach

One for each
For bird and bug
And for the child dear
- a peach
- a plum
- a pear

Into fields where
They can eat
Their fill of some
- peach
- pear
- plum

As write, post, and rework my poems I rely on your feedback to work my craft.  To write poetry is not mere pastime it is necessity for me .  Oh not that it pays the bills.  It merely helps to keep me sane.  An important endevor.

As we move into 2025 let's elevate our the quality of our work together.

My sincere thanks

All free-born and wild

Into field stride
Nature's child
Barefoot run
- a peach
- a pear
- a plum

Bird song
Insect hum
Orchard fun
- a pear
- a plum
- a peach

One for each
For bird and bug
And for the child
- a peach
- a plum
- a pear

Into fields where
They can eat
Their fill of
- peach
- pear
- plum

One star waiting in the sky
All of the others hid.

A game of hide-and-seek
And I find.

Beneath clouds smile
And stay awhile

Until the sky clears
And I can see them all there

Waiting with sparkling smiles.
Clouds warming them all the while.

I love words that make you visualize
The intent of what the writer desires.
What the writer sees within the mind
Conveys what I can see in mine.

The mockingbird heralds
Each new sunrise.
This morning unbeknownst to it

Man declares it to be
A whole new year in its life.

So, sing on my friend.
May we enjoy many more days
Of your lovely song.

What if I say the word
Pomegranate
With pouty red lips
Which glistens with its juices?

What if I do?
How would you feel?
Would you grab me,
- hold me close?

Could I illicit a thousand
Breathless sighs?  Could you?
And you taste the sweet drops
- from my lips?

I will say it over and over
And once again!
Pomegranate, pomegranate,
- Pomegranate

A self-published poet
is not the same
as a published poet.

A self-published poet says
"I'm pretty good!  
I'll put this into the world."

A published poet
has someone else say,
"You are outstanding.

I want to publish you."
Otherwise, you should say
I am a self-published poet.

One is not equal to the other.

Plump un-pecked cherries,
Strawberries and raspberries,
Picked to pop into mouths

Of reddened lips.
A glance of eyes
And hopes of romance

Within the secret of a garden.
Standing close I search
For your hand in shaded wonder.

Either my poems will speak for themselves
Or speak for me, no matter, given voice
Let them fall upon eyes, and ears, and hearts.

Bare
Synchronized pants
Hands caressing
Yours on my face
Mine trace your body
Eyes caught
In deep gaze together
Held

Hip to hip
Rhythms of this - together
Moments came and gone
And back again
Constellations of
Bare emotions
Real as reality
Can get

Hair in braids hanging down,
The Sun in rays shining all around,
Glimmers and shimmers on skin so fair
And glows upon my long dark hair.
Bare feet tread on soil rich and brown
Pattering along as they touch the ground.
The softest air in rhythm is growing
With scents of ocean breezes flowing
To a blue haze above the lofty mountains.
This is where my heart will be soaring
'Or mounts, oceans, 'n watery fountains.

If nothing else in this life had I.  Nothing
Sought nor found other than you,
My circle would complete its circuit
With my heart settled on you.

If I were a bird, able to fly, I'd stay,
Take feathers plucked from my chest
To make a feathered nest for you
And for us two.

I would throw colors at the moon
Should it be pale, and paint the stars
In lovelier hues all for you,
In a world made only for me and you.

All are welcome, come to rest,
Within my feathered nest

To find what you may seek
Love and comfort if you be weak.

If I were a bird
You would be my nest.

You are the bed
When I need rest.

My ears had heard
But now my eyes see.

I come to know the depth
Of what you mean to me,

Life and love, and breath.

Imagine this,
Just because you can't
See a teapot from outer space
It doesn't mean it doesn't exist.
Conversely,
There are far greater things
In heaven unseen.

"How strange it is to be nothing at all,"
He thought, looking down to see
If there was actual flesh and bones.

Bad childhood memories have fathers
Who caused their births
And mothers who allowed them.

The small pond
By the early light
Of the dawn
Sparks in my heart
A grateful spark

Light begins
And glows upon
Hearts of us all
Human, beast, frog
Down by the pond

In an early light of dawn

Hair in braids hanging down,
The Sun in rays shining all around.
Glimmers and shimmers on skin so fair
That glows upon long dark hair.
Bare feet tread on soil rich and brown
Pattering as they touch the ground.
The softest air in rhythm is growing
And scents of ocean breezes flowing
To a blue haze above the mountains.
This is where my heart is soaring
'Or mounts, oceans, 'n watery fountains.

Black as night
Coal for eyes
Glee at shiny objects
Gathering bits of light
You bring gifts

We give and give of ourselves.
Without thought or reservations,

Without hesitation,
- we give.

In giving we are loving, deeply
As we drink from the well of life.

It is our inner strength that allows
- this caring.

Caring for others certainly, but
- first for ourselves.

That is where the gift lies,
- and that is how

We get our power back.

In the land of the midnight sun
You whispered to me, "Come."
And so, I followed you.

Winter was full of darkness
Compensated with beauty.  Fires
Burned bright and warmed hearts.

Summer was filled up with the sun
Under the many clear blue skies,
There were long days spent in fun.

To see millions of stars fill up the sky,
To feel the first rays of a long-lost sun,
You can understand worshipful ones

Who stand in twilight,
Truly the most beautiful light of all
With or without snow.

Evidence of absence
Does not mean
Absence of evidence

In the field

The gentle breeze
Blows the leaves
On the trees, they move

Lying on the blanket

Your touch, goosebumps
Appear on my bare skin
Branches rustle overhead

Now, alone

Even the thought of you
Can create the evidence
Of the heat of our passion

We eventually parted

It was like a scarlet letter
Pinned to my chest
The kind pinned on
The type of lady
For one's pleasure
And all of the rest

Yet, happy they were
To partake in secret
Of their wares for sale
But my love was not
Free for any to take
It was meant for you

To the end of time

At times we all thought
Was he stupid?
His only sin
- Falling in love
With an unfaithful woman
Who became an unfaithful wife.
But he never let that stop him
- From loving her.
So we left him to it.

There is something about poetry.  It moves in waves
To the beat of its drum, in its own time and cadence.
A poem is a naked thing born of stripped bare bones,
We crave its touch as one craves a lover's.

The world might not hear anything like it for years
Until one day a reborn version will set it on fire.
Its layers add meaning to the meaning of the familiar.
Rich in its complexities it speaks to our souls,

Reaching for those moments no one else has touched.
It is like a love letter to our past that haunts us going into
The present.  It is a beacon of hope not until like a melody.
Words are gathered and then we pin them down to the page.

A poem is just a song stripped of its music.
If only I had another lifetime within this lifetime
The music and words would never stop.  And yet,
You cannot reach for and grasp a mist to save in a bottle,

But poetry can.

I happened upon a sad little birdie sitting in a tree.
"What's the matter little birdie?  You cry.  Why?"
"The notes in my throat are all caught." was the reply.

But said I, "Music is in your bones with every melody.
There's no song more important than the one you sing.  
And I can look through you and see.  Sing your songs for me."

And with love, patience, and encouragement, it began to sing.
Will you?

With a thrill, some creature glides past,
Soon stills the heart, discernment at last.
Only a brief flutter on shaded-out wings
Quickly glimmered in the evening breeze.  
It was only a shadow.  So why would I care?
This time of day no shadows should be there.

I thread the silken thoughts and notes
Weaving as I go like whispers
In a darkened room, in and out
The phrases go like shadows
Like broken lullabies sung off-key
I search for something no longer in me
Then, rock myself to sleep.