This lily-rose-faced one, 'er
With lips set in a romantic pout,
And hips like a blooming flower
Opening.  Fresh with dew
Her alabaster skin glistens,
A slender neck begging for pearls,
Her long black hair is unbound.

With coverings of arabesque cloth
And tassels of gold in their richness,
Her sumptuousness abounds
Everywhere, on tables, lamps, beds.
She is the freest of free spirits set to fly
At a breath's moment, you will find,
Should you be able to be clear-eyed.

Will she stay for long enough? No!
She has already spread her wings to fly.
Though through life, she only glides.
But do not blink for a second an eye,
You will find that butterflies live brief
Lives.  And they and their beauty
Eventually, they die much too soon.

Vestigium, a Latin word meaning "footprint, trace."

Day hides behind a curtain of white,
So hides the night, the fading night.
The fog that descended before the light
Moves and curls around the lights brightly.
The earth is swallowing the memory of the sky.

With pressed-tight lips and dreary-eyed
I am staring into the obscure day, forming
As the fog leaves a footprint, a trace
On objects and roofs, then slyly drips down.
Its soft coolness covers me, as well.

Where is the context of things barely seen?
An ephemeral blanket closes in on us all.
Unsettling until the day is elucidating sight.
The lights all have halos like a holy thing.
At least it gives each one a certain clarification.

Still, the fog is closing in.

Large white wings flapping
Carried the creature away
Into the bright mist of morning.

A thousand feelings rush in.
Summer rains have faded
To autumn, then winter.

A thousand feelings
Flung like cards being played
Some hard, some soft.

Was the bird soft or hard?
The mist was soft hanging there.
The morning, like many, was hard.

The weight of things, so like life.

There they go
The true ladies of the night

Walking the streets
In a protective routine

I hear them laughing
I hear the banter

Out there, down below
My balcony

In the dark of night
Before the dawn's light

They stroll circulative
Calling out occasionally

What wicked deed
Is their goal in darkness

They are the walkers
In our retirement village

Autumn is sleeping as Winter awakes.
We follow with the hope of snow wanting
For snowflakes.

We chase them through our Decembers
Searching, desiring to collect and adore;
Chasing old memories,

And wanting to make more.
Ephemeral like old lace they drift away
As they take our thoughts with them,

Not unlike age.

In the furnace of my mind
I burn to light up the world
With heat expanding a universe.
In pages unfolding I whisper to "Open,
Come in and see.  Inside you can find me
And so many fascinating things."
Expanding, expanding, and hurtling forward
Our world is there before us all.  If only
People would not think so small.

I explored,
I circumnavigate your world
And wondered from where you came?
I danced around the moment,
Spoke with raspberry lips,
Stroll up to you, tall, lanky you
With swaying on my hips.

You were older,
So should have known better.
But I tantalized and teased,
Stirred an emotional need
To say the least, physical.
I can still feel the sensations
Of the moment we began.

You will be outed
Whether as to truth
Or from hearts

Your funerary epitaph:
"He never told a truth."
Carved on stone in relief.

You, you, you!
You, like a box full of Paris in springtime
Blossoms blowing in the gentle breeze,
A spicy dance of can-can at Moulin Rouge,
Or meandering along the banks of the Seine,
And a stroll down the Champs-Elysee
As far as the Arc de Triomphe along the way.

You, a luxuriant lounge on The French Riviera
And traveling in Provence-Alpes-Cote d'Azur.
You are delicious clean air that fills the lungs
When the smell of lavender is everywhere.
Come! Float along the course of the Roia River.
Un titre tu es mon Jardin de délices!
Toi, toi, toi!

Tu es mon seul désir. You are my one desire.

A couple of stars wink at me
Amid the clouds of the night sky.
Amid a cloudy and dark night's sky
I see your glow . . .

Amid the clouds of the night sky
A gentle wind whispers, and it calls to me
"Come live among the stars."
A tempting offer . . .

But I will stand and dream of heavenly things
And dream and dream of other things
Watching you amid the clouds of the night sky
As I wink back and sigh.

With delicate needles made from animal bone
They sow warm winter clothing for the family.
Each sit, these tribal sisters, by the light of a fire pit.
The walls of the cave, a natural shelter, are sooted
And lapping tongues of flames flicker across the scene;
Children play at the mouth of the cave, running, giggling.
They are bundled up in skins along with fur-shod feet,
Their mothers keep an eye on these precious offshoots.
The men are gathered toward the back of the cave
Sharing stories of the hunt, one sketches on the wall.
They will go and track game before the morning dawns.
Then men and women will prepare the bounty together
And the tribal sisters will sit to sew with delicate needles.

A Hunter's moon is rising.
And it struggles to shine.

Out of a ladened sky
Descends rain as clouds cry.

Though, I will not fret, nor fear
What the night might try to hide.

For the brightness and beauty
Of which you now emit

Far outshines any sun
And all my worries quit.  

You my love are the only one
Who can fill my sky tonight.

Once found,
This tensile strength,

Not much can
Ever get me down.

I look to You with
Steel-rod spine,

But gentleness inside all
Will find as I walk with You.

For You hold the stars
Within Your hands

And with an upward toss
Direct them where to go.

The universe sparkles
With Your truth and power

And through Your spirit glows.

It touches my heart deeply
When I think back to her

Wiping eyes and waving
As we drove away after each visit

I adored my Granny
And see her sitting in church

Hat and gloves on, elegant in age
A Southern paper fan in hand

Treasured Bible and hymnal on the pew
So worn with use from her very hands

And I hear the old-timey style of singing
As she slides into each of the notes

All that is what is the best within me
Had its beginning with her instruction

Her desire to walk in her Master's steps
And have me follow

If I had not known better
I would have thought she came down

From heaven

Though each fold be lovingly placed
One thing is for sure it may not glide.

And just because a thing has wings
No matter how you try it may not fly.

And should you ask me why?  
This would be my reply,

"It's just that way with fragile things."

Love is
A river
That rages
In stages.
Wanting to be
Free it climbs
Its banks as if
Wanting to see
What is on
Each side.
So comes
Forth the poem
From just
One line
"Time is a river."

She sits at the top of the tree calling.
Searching and calling for babies grown.
She wants them back, those who have flown.
She has decided she no longer wants to be alone
So, she is calling, "Come home!  Come home!"
But they are gone since they are grown,
Just as it should be.  Yes, they have flown on bold wings,
While she is left behind and day by day is growing old.
So, she will build a new nest.  And she will sit and try to sing.

Alternate version:
She sits at the top of the tree calling.
Searching and calling for babies grown.
She wants them back, those who have flown.
She has decided she no longer wants to be alone
So, she is calling, "Come home!  Come home!"
But they are gone since they are grown,
Just as it should be.  Yes, they have flown on bold wings,
While she is left behind and day by day is growing old.
So, she will build a new nest where she will rest.
And she will sit and try to sing, alone.  But not for long.

You were written
In a language
No one understands.

You became a star
In the night sky.
While I?  I truly tried
To read your code

When you burst
Into a supernova
Overhead.

A mockingbird suddenly chirps
Just like a cricket's sound.
Then it beeps like a car alarm.
It runs through its amazing repertoire,
None of which these creatures truly are.
I've known men just like that.

I hear the little pitter-patter of raindrops
And listen for the sound of ice as it falls.
Raindrops manifested as ice crystals
With its delicate but distinctive sound
As the tiny bits ****** softly down
Like seeds scattered on the ground.

They glisten like slivered splinters of glass
Amid the fallen autumn leaves on grass
And magnify the beauty with shards of color
Glinting through accumulating gathered ice.
A foundation for a Crystal Palace in miniature
The beauty captivates within a time capsule

Of only one wintery day.

Death allows as time goes forth,
For empathy where you once had none.
No longer vulnerable to the hooks
That can tear at a heart opened.
They cannot hurt you now.

Tumultuous beauty
Like raging waters
Falling over vast cliffs
Into basins of whirlpools

And billowing monoliths
Of dark clouds rushing past
All within a container
Of your human flesh

Droplets of red
Splatter across
The room
Pooling into puddles
O, the horrors
A messy scene
As I slice into

The strawberries

No poet is dead
If the poet is read.
Between life and death
There is a reality
Beyond reality, it seems.
Poets live on
If only in a reader's dreams.

The Truth is often painful
Yet, truth is required.
We must face it head-on
For it cannot be denied.

When we look into an abyss
We see faces looking back.
Our humanity must accept
Some faces are long gone.

Our duty is to remember.

Back to you,
I will come back to you
If you will come back to me.
And we can meet

In-between.

Somewhere in the middle
Of love with no regret,
And promise to forgive
And to forget.

When I see you my heart is full as it expands.
It bursts open like an overripe pomegranate.
And I flush with heat as you touch my hand.
My emotions spill out like the ruby-red seeds
Dropping from opened fruit.  Sweet the taste,
As I feed you pieces of heart from my own hand.

May my ribbons of passion
Tie you up in pleasures
And bind your heart to mine.

Though we tangle each time
With sweet kisses that toy
With one another's hearts.

Bound through struggle
That knot the ribbons tighter
With each hand, lips, touch

And are fused each to each in the joys of pleasure.

I love you.
I do not like dancing around that thought.
It rattles like a pebble in my brain.
It becomes a stone in a wall of the insane.

But I love you and I am fraught.
What to choose?
The possibilities of me and you
Solidifies the brickwork of a windowless room.

I love you to my own doom.

There is just something about taillights
Whizzing past in the dusky path of night.
All are in such a rush as they drive fast,
And my imagination wants to follow
Wherever it is that they are going.

Our relationship never existed
Not in the real world
It existed in the ether of time
In a breath exhaled by lovers
In the brief mist at dawn
Amidst the weightlessness
Of a vast distant universe
Although it was tangible there
Within two minds in open air
Warmed by only the sun
Dried by breezes blowing upon
Our naked skin as we glistened

Lost within
A moment's breath
Darkness ripples
With sharp claws
Released energy paused
And I feel the percussion
Of your silent echo

-In the style of "pitch black", by silent echo

The sky was a fabric of cloud cover.
The threadbare heaven was covered
In moth-ridden holes with frayed edges.
Stringy clouds, as if the loose openings,
With a ratty-tatty weave created a gauze
Of tangled threads.

Her little belly glows.
It pulsates with anticipation
Waiting, listening for my voice.
Eager to please should I have need.
When I am at rest she hears my breath,
And waits for me to speak so she can please.
Her little light interrupts my sleep at times
But she is there bright and early
To make sure that everything is fine.  I say,
Well, thanks to you need to go back to sleep,
You little busybody creep!

Wrapped in a gossamer bag
Translucent and light
Shimmering with many threads

Finely woven together.
Your gold to my silver
Will forever hold our love.

Cultivated soil
Rich in love
That first seed
Planted
We will never
Be the same

With a soil
So rich
We plant again
Our harvest
Was precious
As we reaped

This fruitful
Field of ours
Thus became
Complete
We will never
Be the same

We are a garden

Her lips, like cherries,
Strawberry is spread
throughout her hair.
Pools of Saphire
Sparkle in her large eyes.
She is budding
From childhood into beauty.
Her ******* are blooming,
Fragrant roses.
She will walk on strong legs
With widening hips
Into the domain of men,
Where they will sigh
Quietly inside, and
She will hold every gaze
As she becomes queen
To some king.

I see your sunlight
Through clouds
Before I see a sun

I smell your rain
Before I see it
Falling on flowers

I see the greening
Of leaves and grass
As you bloom, and

I wonder, what else
Do you hold out
In wonder for me

The voice of nightfall
Calls.
I listen in the dimming light.

All is softened by it.
Eyes strain.
Change is never easy.

The beauty engulfs me
As I adapt
To a new realization

With each new night.
I open
To its wonder.

Look, listen, strive, and grasp at the depth of all things.

There is a depth of sadness in you that hurts my heart,
And the lack of desire therein to seek and to find pains me.

Where there are shadows there has to be light illuminating.
Even in those depths of darkness, there are degrees of dark
Light plays with light and darkness, layer upon layer.

In music there are highs and there are lows as it flows.
Crescendos and decrescendos.  Adagio and allegro.

Fortississimo and diminuendo.  By degree pianissimo
Largo and on and on and on it goes.  Life is the same.
As all this wonder comes together there is harmony.

Plumb the unfathomable depths of the art and song of life.

It is love that makes one remember.
If no love, then what?  Then what?
No memory-

An ocean sonata washes over me
When I remember, remember you.
Devine Music-

It is love that erases pain from memory
As we dance through life.  Remember?
Soul seeking-

And, I will always have you, my love.

"Life can only be seen in relief."
That is what Leonardo said;
"One must not stop at the surface."

Dive below, for no world is small
When you open your eyes wide
To take it all in, analyze the details.

You find that there are the minute
Universes upon universes to explore.
Let the wonder take your breath

Until you have no more.  Leo did.

Your web tingles.
Movement you discern.
A shimmer of dew falls.
Perfectly still listening
You wait momentarily,
Rush forward to him
With your love bite.

It is that which drives me
It is not hardheadedness
Although it has been called such
It is, rather, a stick-to-it-ness
That guides me to never give up
A dogged determined outlook
Which tells me not to stop
Because ultimately all will be okay

In the stiff northern breeze
Leaves are blowing from the trees
And gathering at our feet.

-A lovely time of the year.

Hot chocolate in hand we climb
A pile nearby to sit and enjoy our treat.
I recite my wintery rhymes.

-A cozy scene with you.

You say they are "so sweet."
A dagger to the heart of a poet.
Oh, happy dagger your pain?  I know it.

-Reality's brutal strike!

But sitting there with you,
Even for the moment, life feels complete.
Even if you are not truly bright.

-It takes a poet to understand a poet.

Accepting the moment in which we find ourselves
Allow reason and meaning to regather as we turn away
From the unacceptable things we find we are sinking in
Reconnecting to the truthful, to the beautiful.
Aspects of goodness you saw once in others.  
Aspects you know are deeply embedded within you.

Reconnect to the good in others we know is there
To find some heart recover yours in the shining glow
Of love, of goodness, of that which you've known
Tarnish must be polished away from other heart
Cleanse own's own heart if we are to be of any use
Have the courage to live another day.  

Enjoy what you can as you can.
The healing will come from those regions
Which the core foundation remains and can never erode.
How did you learn to love?  Who initially gave you hope?
You did when you decided to love, to be loved, to reach higher.
Trust that a higher power unseen will guide and will lead.

Follow the breadcrumbs that you know were laid for you.

Pain sits with a held hand.
It is enough.

Pain rises, carries on,
It was enough.

Because it doesn't want
To perpetuate the pain

Of others.
There is always enough.

When the glass is filled
One stops.

My grief lies below the 6-foot mark.
Yet, my hope rises above that depth
Where there are many hands to hold.
I recall that hope is an anchor for the soul.
And then I come to understand and know
That I can endure almost anything.

Though things at present may look bleak.
Everything points to a brighter future.
What fuels our world's beauty, forests, fields, and gardens?
Is it, not decay, the litter layer, a waste uncultivated?
Superfluous matter feeds life and produces beauty.
"One man's trash," as they say, or animals for that fact -
Our systems are breaking down, building up, breaking down
Again.  In this churning regenerating it is giving hope.
The hope of a bright new world, before us, springs up.

So many countries are like old junkies
Who refuse to give up their favorite drug
First, the teeth drop out, and they have no bite
Until the person rots from the inside out
And become walking skeletal remains gumming