My skin drum beats the message
Deep from within my chest sending
Out the rhythmed vibrations
Hopefully, the sound will pound
Upon your own heart

How long has she sat there, jam spread across her face?  I just looked
in!
The ice cream, there in the freezer has two deep finger marks dug in
it.
I don't even have to guess.  I saw, in the middle of the night,
By the light of the fridge a little girl who thinks no one sees.

Having been caught she says she didn't do anything.  I know what I saw.
"It's all right sweetheart, because it is all yours.  Whenever you want.
Anytime."  I buy her any and everything I think she might want.
I just want her to be as happy as is possible, feel secure, and loved.

I lead her to the bathtub, instruct her to clean, knowing
That I will have to wash that sweet face that I love so dearly.
After all, she made cobblers, cakes and pies for us when we visited.  
She wiped my face, washed my bottom, did my precious, Granny.

You stand
Gathered together,

The lines of your branches,
The ink of your markings
Standing out.

On your grey-white paper
I will fill your book
With beautiful poetry.

I come to you with a heart like glass.
You choose, the velvet box or the hammer.

A warmth of blood deep within;
Velvet-smooth linings, cradle
Precious life therein.
Whose choice, this vessel?
Before this seed is planted
We must decide who has the right
To this life inside.

There was no sunrise this morning
There was only grey and rain, yet,
You will find that I won't complain,
For I love these thunderstorms and rain.

In the distance, on the overpass,
Through the smoke-like grey
A bus drives in the drizzling rain.
It is a beautiful, dreamy scene.

The faint sun strived to shine,
Yet all that it could manage is a glow
Turning dark grey to a lighter shade
Beneath the layers of heavy clouds.

Grey has long been a favorite color, and
Blankets of it can't help but comfort, so
You will find that I won't complain,
For I love the thunderstorms and its rains

And the dreamy comfort grey can bring.

The celestial saltshaker sprinkles
The night sky spreading its contents
Across the cosmos with brilliant specks.

And, if the timing is right, you can see
The hazy belt stretching across the sky
That starry, dusty core of our Milky Way.

You were not Captain America.
You were not Captain Hero.
You were my downfall. 
You were Captain Undertow.

If one cannot heal one's own heart 
How can one heal the heart of another?
But power does not dwell in a vacuum.

I thought it was my duty to heal you. 
I tried so hard; my mission taken seriously!
It took me many long pain-filled years
To see that you did not want to be saved. 

We could not heal our own hearts, could we?
How could we heal the hearts of one another?
The power vacuum continued to dwell in us, lovers.

And yet, we needed each other.

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.

When I was a child thistles grew in the countryside
And we both ran wild across the green
Me on legs, it sends out seeds and systems of roots
Yes, the thistle intrigues me with its stately air, and

Even as a child, I would lie nearby to study it;
It with its bold, untouchable beauty standing
On hollow strong stem holding its pink head proudly
I had not realized it was connecting to a Scottish soul

When the mowers came and crossed its path
I would find them butchered among the grass
And pause to examine just how tender
This vulnerable, this seemingly iron-clad plant

Touch-me-not, better left free, for one cannot hold
The prickly beauty to one's breast nor remain unharmed
If enticed by its charm to grasp its prickles and thorns
When cut it quickly dies, thus you must love it from afar.  

I know people like that
My desire remained strong and I have longed
Merely to be near this wild ephemeral creature
For the air is sweetest where the thistle grows.

Yellow scents the page
With many decades of age.
When gingerly pried open
The dry binding creaks.

Inside grows a faint mold
And it spreads in streaks
Across the brittle folds
Within the pages crease.

Cloudy wafts of odor, light
Hang buoyant in the air,
Like so much lost knowledge
Folded within its pages there.

After we fell apart I tried to put the pieces back together.
But they just wouldn't fit, the parts that made you did, just fine.

Not mine,

They no longer belonged so I threw them out.  I grew.
Two weary-worn, tattered lives had lain side by side so long;

I was left to start again, cut new pieces, lay them into a new scene,
One without you, you with your unchanged YOU,

Me ANEW.

What else could I do?

I'll meet you at the statue of the boy by the stream.
You know, the one of the boy who is peeing?

Oh, that's not what I intended to say!
But you know the one and what I mean.
.
Well, that's where I'll meet you, anyway.
I will be there, then we'll both be seeing.

When the veil of mist hangs
Across the pastures and fields
The day is dawning gradually
Turning all things to color.

The sun swims in these pools
As a diver swimming slowly immerges
Out of the depths into sea-blue light
And begins to see clearly.

We feel the brief touch of cool mist
Before it can fully dissipate
Leaving us to immerge into our day
Warmed by the touch of the sun.

This new day breathed its first breath.

The salvages have been cut away
And all has begun to fray
The fabric-cutter now holds sway
In the fabric of so many lives

It started with one tiny thread
With what somebody wrote
And then somebody read
The fear then grew and spread

Like some great moth-ridden cape
With in which massive holes gape
Your minds have now been *****
As many fear the ultimate date

When the fabric-cutter begins
To trim, first foes, but in the end
The woeful trim of even friends
When all is cut away at bitter end

Hence, not even he will have the win
Nor protective garment.

I wish your feet were little again.
And I could kiss your chubby tiny toes.
Then watch the flutter of your butterfly eyes
And kiss your sweet pug nose.

It is the little things that get broken
China, a glass, toys,

A heart.

It is the little things that get lost
A button, your car keys,

A heart.

It is the little things which bring joy
Touching your hand, you touching me,

Love from the heart.

It is the little things which remain unspoken
I love you more than life itself.

I’m so tired
Tired of falling
Falling in love
Falling apart

Falling to pieces
Falling down
Down a rabbit hole

A deep hole
Wholly deep
Diving into you

Memories are like tears
Shed in times of joy,
And in times of sorrow
As though kept in a bottle
Until tomorrow.
When opened we can
Feel its fleeting power.
Memories, they mix
And blend until
Even sorrow is diluted
Into unmitigated joy.

Like petals of flowers
Unfurl, expose hidden
Secrets within beauty
Fresh and newly born
Free from harm
Inclusive hearts
Are blooming
Opening world views
Reaching out to know
And to hold
Hand upon hand
Upon all lands
In a brave world
Love will grow
You are my family
It is all that I know

Beautiful things
Do not always
Remain

Shiny and new.
At times they
Become

Seasoned into
A thing special
And true.

Just like my life,
Of living & loving,
Aging with you.

The thought of you is always with me
Like a BB just beneath the skin
That scar one reaches out to touch
Time and time again

Sic vita est, thus is life, it is what it is.

Because
I can take a piece of paper
And write our story
To be whatever we want
And then dream together

It’s easy to love
From afar
Where you never will know
Who they are
Really.  Truly inside out
Sinew deep

It’s harder to love
Up close
An in your face true love
Seeing warts and all
In the big
And small hours of a life

You have made mistakes, and
You've let me down in the past.
At times I have been
Disappointed in you deeply.

But you have made heroic efforts
To change and to grow,
To become a better person.
In time I have come to know

That I can finally trust myself.

Garden of delight
At the eve of dusky-night
Twilight holds no grudge

I tell you,

This life, it takes and takes;
Of this, we all must get a grip.

With each new birth, I tore apart,
With gaping cervical rips.

And though I fed you long ago,
No longer can I hold you to my breast;

For now, is the time that you must go
And stand upon two legs.

I tell you, go, you must nourish yourself.

1-13-2020

Cherry blossoms fall
Pink carpets my bamboo hat
Smiles float on lips

When does your spring come,
Calendar Slave?  Only once a year?

Listen to this precious secret of life:

When true to your authentic self
Spring can come every day.

We climb the stars
Make honey in our hearts
Mad as a jack rabbit
We leap into dark holes
Walk among winged creatures
Quiver in our skins
And swear that we can fly
Feather light on love alone

People the world over are naturally benevolent.
Yet, we are all, at times, foolish beings.

To be damaged is part of the human condition.

One is rarely ruined beyond redemption.
One is only soiled.  No wings required.

Author Raymond Chandler left a poem
Only found after his death.  It read:
“There is a moment after death when the face is beautiful
When the soft, tired eyes are closed, and the pain is over.”

The Psalmist said, "For he well knows how we are formed,
Remembering that we are dust."
And, Job cried out, "Remember, please,
That you made me out of clay,
But now you make me return to dust."

Did not Isaiah give insight?
“Your dead will live.
My corpses will rise up.
Awake and shout joyfully,
You residents in the dust!
For your dew is as the dew of the morning,
And the earth will let those powerless in death come to life."

Indeed, there is a certain beauty in the release at death,
And, in the remaining echoes of who we were.
Yet, there is greater beauty in life.
Regenerate, oh, you dust!  Live, again!

Viola, with suddenness the cry,
"It is spring!" they all sang
In chorus oh so sweet.
They spread their wing
And as sweetly they sing
Opening wide their tiny beaks,
(Yes, some even stamped their feet!)
Singing loudly, for all the bright world,
"Spring has finally been reached!"

Look for me in our children's smiles
Look for me wherever you linger awhile

See me in the colors of the sunrise
And ******* a kiss at the sunset

Look me for in the ebbing tides
Look for me when you are at rest

Look for me across the vast cornfields
For all these places contain my memory still.

Bright tambourine shaker, where are you?
Shake over me, shake.  Fill this desert!

Sift the sands around my lonely oasis.
Dig up all its well-hidden treasures.

Come into me unfurled, unfettered.
Find the delights, measure by measure.

Searching hands seek to interlace
As vines, among a secret grove, this garden.

The arms of a mighty cedar, you 
Are still strong, though grown old.

Never mind that.  Come home.
Dwell here and stay forever. O, stay!

My nomad, become the vine that wraps me
By the heat of day and cold of night, stay.

Become my incidental canopy of full cover 
For your every whim and unspent pleasure.

I make the music, give the bursting springs
Within this isolated place of treasures.

Each to each
On tippy toes
They reach
Up and over
Into the
Secret garden
Creep

The silence passed between the two
As a mist encircled like a glove,
Fingers reaching for something.  Love?

One cut through the void with few words.
And a weight fell from off their chests like feathers
Floating down and filling the space between;

As these words broke through, "I love you.  
I love you, Dad."

Lov-v-v-ve, the word on the tongue
Vibrates as a bee does before it stings
"With love's light wings
did I o'er perch these walls."
Then, the fall.

Deat-th-th-th, an imagined voice of serpents
"Th-th-th", as it slithers upon the dust of earth.
O, precious love & life!  O, sting, life's dearth.
Did those lovers prove Love's worth?
When oft you straddle walls you fall.

Lif-f-f-fe, even the sound is ephemeral,
A mist.  Just as the object is itself.
Not unlike a mystery book on the shelf
There is death within all of us.
Though for some, early, the fall.

I could forgive you just about anything,
My precious one.
The sun will still rise in the sky,

And my heart-wound will heal
My eyes will dry.
But we will all be changed by careless acts,

And never be the same.

Dreams are the substance
As shadows move
But the darkness
Seems never to lift

Until suddenly
With the start of clarity
It becomes beautiful poetry
And flows across the page

You are left wondering
At its ability
To gather itself
And become reality

My little homeless man is gone.
He either found himself a home
Or else they've moved him on.

I look at the spot where he was once.
That place he sat and slept at for months
Since we've have had a couple cool front.

He is missed since he has gone; home; moved on.

Though, like a leaf we wither
And in a light breeze are carried off
When the things we cherished lie in ruins
We refuse to become a wilderness,
Nor a wasteland without growth
While the earth we love continuously stands
Love is the thing that continues unabated,
Eroded yet grows, a bud, in hearts
Forever.

Heat comes up
Heat cools down
Hot-white love
Can turn cool-blue

High color rising
On the horizon's line
Reflecting many colors
In a lover's eye

Beneath each new day
After every storm,
There must be a calm
As lovers often know

Here,
In this womby-tomby

Safety of my coverings
I begin to realize,

I don't want to remain unborn.

I glanced out and there he was
Sleeping like a bug in a rug
On the hard cement ledge.

Where has he been, my homeless man?
Hospital, jail, a shelter for a change?
I was just getting accustomed to him gone.

But there he is once again in my purview.
Oh, the drama, to see a being always sleeping.
How could he have caused me such worry.

(I lost a dear friend, yesterday.)

It is cloudy and
It is dreary on this day.

And why should it not be?

Although temporary,
You have gone away.

So, hide Sun, behind dark clouds
Until the sky and those left behind

Finish shedding our tears.

An orange fog
Descends on the land
Grabbing at it with
An aged orange hand
It will choke the life out
Of you and out of me
Hindsight is 20/20
Unfortunately

Our star was rising,
Our sun, at its zenith

As our hidden desires,
Secrets of our hearts

Revealed under
A moon in culmination.

Every man fears the psychiatrist’s ****** cigar.
That fraudulent Freudian slip.  What freak-fantastic dribble.

Destruction of society imaged in a dream.
The apocalypse is light in comparison to his judgments.

Superlative pish.
Let this be a sockdologer.

A mist is rising, collecting in a fog which wraps all.
Reflected in the tall highway lights, shadow-like.
Obscured from full vision the traffic whizzes past.
Day will soon be dawning, and the fog will not last.
For now, I sit in the veiled cloud of humidity rising.