Give me one rose hour by hour
To build for me loves glorious tower
And turn this pain into smiles
Give of yourself un-beguiled

That I might trust love once again
Thus except you more than mere friend
And make me know that all is truth
Having given the effort and the proof

Then this heart of mine can rule
Show me your love never decreased
For love became an unruly beast
O, diminish love not in the least

On throughout all time.

Rare and unusual even among the ill,
Neurosis and psychosis wrap around him
Like a warm, protective blanket.

Thwack! upside the head, "Hello!"
Reality is calling on deaf ears.
The knock never loosens nor
dislodged the blockage in them. He is
Building his life, if only in his own mind,
Second by second, wake to sleep, day after day;
Serving to preserve this foggy unreal thinking.

A magical sort of twilight within continually twinkles.
And a crafty, but ill and calculating brain remains
Though truth slaps him in the face, again and again,
Even as he lives in his own cocooned mind.
The reality within the reality which he continues to create
Is so much work on the part of his many lifetime enablers
But it is all too little effort by him for anything but himself.

His words wrapped around my very bones
Their underpinning became fragile
And began to crack and crumble

Just as the empty shell of an egg brakes apart
With a sudden thwack

His words stabbed deep into my heart and back
Like some black worm gnawing at the roots
The plant we grew together withers and dies

At times I catch glimpses of my own mortality.
The fact that although I am present in this moment
I will be gone and become the past.  A memory.
At least one could, would, should hope for that.

Family, those present and gone are always, in effect, present
With me.  My ancestors live large in my life because I choose
To remember their existence, that they acted, were once here.
And thus, it is I who, now, hope to remain, if only in this way.

Yes, it's a surreal way to live.  Past and present meld into future.
And one never knows who it is that will make the choice
To recall, call the name, think upon some act once engaged in.
Yet, we all live side by side in a continuum of time.

At times we are all fragile.
Casual words spoken at the time
Can cut to the bone
Leaving you hurt and feeling alone.

It's not another's responsibility to nurture you.
Only you can keep "you" from feeling like a fool.
Thus, tap deep into the core of who you really are
And all the good you may have wished to do.

Then ask yourself: What part did I play
In making the world the worse or better today?
Could my next actions alter those next casual words
Said with such disregard or even said in mirth?

The only "I" that is within my own control
Is the better "I" that slowly comes to the old.
That which has the hardest time erasing pasts acts
Can bring the knowledge that all things change and pass.

Even self-worth.

When I hear that piece I will think of you.
The fading memory will start anew.
Recessed within a heart and mind
I soon will find,
You.

I feel the heat of the morning sun on my skin.
A new day has begun.
A new day to begin again.  We are all renewed.
The day, me, you.  So, start again.

A bed should be free of smells,
Stinky tails, and most important, liars!

A bed must be free of crumbs, bums,
And by all means bugs!

When climbing on board
Ask: How far can I go in this thing?

Can I wrap and roll in coolness?
Will it hold up in "rough seas"?

A bed should be a safety haven,
A garden of delight in which to. . .

Get the needed rest that one desires.

Seeing you once again,
So very much makes me long
For that sweetness of your sting

And the heat, which throbs bright red
Pumping out an intoxicating cocktail
To rush throughout my skin.

Who knew such poison could be 'friend'?
Desires now past are to become craved.
I **** my throbbing wound going to the grave.

Yet, I do not mourn, I do not rage nor rave.
It is done and I am too satisfied to die
With you upon my lips.

With tiny feet
Stuck on dead meat
You proboscis-probe
******* juice;
And yet, you are
Beautiful.

(Throat-clear)
Um, me-me-me-me
Take that face off
Put it in the drawer
Tucker, you ain't gonna
Need it no more
They done booted you ****
Out the door,
La-tra-la-la-la

for Kathrine
She loved every season, getting all that each had to offer.
Sunbonnet on her head, she would venture out into the hot summer garden;

Waiting for the change that would allow pumpkin, turnips,
and greens to be grown in the fall

When the sun would soften and the turning trees begin to feel the coolness.

Then, into the mellowed golden rows she would venture
hoping to gather what summer may have left behind.

Later, in the sharp chill of winter, she would stand in the fallow field
planning out each row and path to spring planting;

Dreaming of abundance.

Glass bottles and other whimsies,
Sparkle in rows on windowsills.
Around the world there are tchotchkes.
These little booms of whimsies live
As blooms of plants die.
Is that their secret?

Paint the night sky
With my breath
With my soul

Canvass of black velvet
Crystalline drops of mist
An essence eked

Paint the black velvet
**** in
My soul

I feel like a dragonfly who’s lost its wing;
No! I feel like the dragonfly’s wing, lost;

Left to flutter down slowly in the wind,
To dwell, an iridescent gossamer thing,
Amidst a muddy range of things that ****

Dragonflies, and collect dragonfly wings.

Her lips blanched then filled with red
As she released her teeth's edge.

The surreal sense of scent
Filled her nostrils then quickly went;

But it took her to another place
Of lovely florals, a greening space.

Had the rose been left for that very reason?
That here, in the greyish heart of winter's season

She might be transformed to have a rebel's heart
That simply would not believe spring could part?

Yet, autumn had faded into shorter darker days,
As winter closed its icy grip, this gift appeared from far away.

Frozen blackness changed with the scent of a sweet rose,
As the surreal sense of scent had filled her nose

And made her write in such pretty proses.

I know it is the natural progression of things.  Certain plants only live for a season then die.  Others wither and retreat into a cover of soil until next year.  Some hold on as long as possible only succumbing to a hard freeze.  Although I hate the heat of summer I love the life it brings to the Balcony Garden which is waning already.

What made
  us beautiful
Since we were never
  likely to happen
Yet here we are

There is never an end without a start

In the moments
  we are meant to share
We are carelessly
  forced apart
Until we all can share one heart

The sun broke through, shining on a nation;
Black clouds thinning into edges of grey mist.

Such a convection of hate starting to dissipate
Replacing the heat of vitriol; and in the coolness

Love becomes a lump of coal glowing in the frigid climate
Blown into a warm flame of unity’s hopeful heart.

I pitched myself into a sea of memories.
The stormy waters washed over me.

I was adrift in a raging storm,
Strange as it was, I did not feel alarmed.

As the swirling waters rocked me
In the agitation I began to feel free,

Free to hear, free to speak, to be still,
Free to feel, or to just to be real.

That in which I had been trapped so long
Suddenly became my enduring song,

Of life and love, of anger and happiness
Even when it all seemed like a huge mess.

I only had to embrace all memory as joy,
In that, the slice of each makes the whole.

Like a mist
He dissipated
Like a whisper faded
I breathe in where
He used to be
With even that
I am sustained

A song and melody
With its words
Exquisitely heartbreaking

Rips into the chest
Picks at the core
Yet, giving caress

Steadies the vessel
Causing it to rest
With a stillness

That becomes the Devine

She lay there writhing
Having used her last few seconds
Of life in sacrifice.

She did not stop the honey-rob.
She did not protect the offspring.
Only fleeting thoughts had slowed

The thief briefly after the sharp sting;
That sting with so few consequences for a thief.
For the strong or the stupid brush pain away.

Then pretend.

"It is like a wildfire that you cannot stop",
Burning all around, you in the middle,
Until all is burned down.

You stand looking out, wondering

How you made it through,
Made it out only slightly singed.
Life is a wildfire that you cannot stop.

On a Sunday, the world stands still and silent;
No traffic sounds reverberate from the distant freeway;
No people milling around the parking lot.

On a Sunday, you can breathe, and hear the birds sing.
No lawns are being manicured, that happens on Saturday.
Sundays are lazy, laid-back, laconic affairs.

Under a canopy of dense and heavy clouds
She gazes out onto the familiar.

Gathered within a tiny sheaf
She carried dried flower and leaf
Gathered from their special place.

The wounds of a heart with glittering clarity
Contemplated with complacent resign, she

Looks inward hoping to know or to find
Whether her heart could find a space,
The space where happy memories can live.

For beth fwoah dream Boleyn

The pale moon, shrunken
And as faint as a pencil sketch

Shines down with sly smile
Looking over the forest below.

She is ill in her waning phase, but
Is comforted knowing she will wax.

Wild nettles of the night rise up
Wrapping her burden in mist.

The tides listen as she commands
Their rhythms and they distils their vapor.

Her victories are unfurled of wrappings
As they stretch out like ribbons of roads.

We are all puppets and go as directed.

I love my baby with the almond eyes,
China doll face with shining dark eyes.
I love my baby with the golden hair,
She is the one with bluest eyes like the sky.
Through old eyes I can see them there

And see snapshots of them run and play,
Picking wildflowers for me most days.
Swinging high or tumbling on the ground
Running up to me to show what they've found.
Life was so much simpler then.

Now I get to call them daughter and friend.
The years have gone by like a spinning wheel
But I can tell you that I still feel
They will always be my babies though grown.
Here within my heart, they will always be home.

He comes to visit; I never know when.
He enters and takes me by the hand.
He leads me where I may not know
But I do not fight it as onwards we go.
Sometimes we travel fast, sometimes slow.
At times it is amazing, other times so-so.
My man, Muse is my dearest friend.

You are like moonlight in a jar,
The reflections, on water, of stars,
Soft strumming of acoustic guitar,

A cool breeze on a sultry night.
The thought of you sparks life,
And causes one to indulge in dreams.

Mother comes to where she is most needed
Her gibbering womb speaks healing words
She tells of times when she was barren
She recalls the times when she gave birth
She speaks of pain in the blood of children
Written in red on black hearts of evil men
She gathers children birthed by others to her
Covers them with the volume of her skirt
Though she had not born them she nurtures
Calls them hers and continue to give them life
She cries "Sisters, I will grow them in your behalf"
Her womb speaks of each one as equaled in love
She is eternally Mother and the world is her child

Moths like stars flicker
In the night sky;
Flickering and flittering
As they pass by.

How my heart soars,
At them, with them,
In the magic moments
That they fly.

A taste, a sight, a sound, a smell,
A touch, a feel, a thought, a breath,
A life, a death, a being, or nothing at all.

Within a mind almost devoid of thought
These begin to swirl and paint the words
On the canvas of a mind.

The Biblical heart
The complete inner person,
including one’s
desires,
thoughts,
disposition,
attitude,
capabilities,
motivations,
and goals.

The metaphorical heart
can be led astray,
down a path,
into harm,
leap,
be joyful
jump for joy
guide,
blacken,
Love.

Know your own heart
For out of it are
The sources of life,
Love,
Wisdom,
Integrity,
Health,
Envy,
Hate,
Your "fate."

Fate is not
something written
and unchangeable.  
It is the will,
the determining cause
like an arrow aimed taking a certain course.
That depends on the skill of the one aiming it.
Fate is in your hands,
not the universe.
It is not an unforeseen excuse for you to use.

The dairy devil
Has cold hands
Pray it grabs your throat

Splayed and 'splooting'
With the cool pavement colluding
A massive heat sync necessary
On such a hot day.

I peeked in on you this morning.
You were curled into the prettiest little shape.  
Your long hair lay around you.

And, I thought, "She looks just like she did at age 10 or 11.  
Just like in that photo of her that I cherish.
So lovely, so precious.”

Time cannot accumulate
It can only be spent

Time cannot go backward
It can only move forward

Time should be treasured
Like the gifted jewel that it is

Cherish every second
For it cannot be relived

Misses Pifflewhiff was a strange old gal;
She was away with the butterflies
Most of the time.

(I know what you are thinking.)

No, she never went with the fairies.
No fairies for her.  She preferred butterflies.
And on their wings, the old gal would fly;

In her imaginative way of thinking.

There is gold in the wings,
This Gossamer, which floats and stings
Hanging as if on invisible strings

Suspended in nothing but air it seems.
My mind tries to catch the wonder of this thing
But it sips then zips and always eludes me.

SkyWlkR88, I only asked a question about your use of "red."  I didn't feel that you should have deleted it so completely.  Never let anyone intimidate you.  Poetry can bend the rules.  You can use any word in any way you wish.  I was just curious and not being critical.

When we are a child we live in that barefoot moment of fascination.
We run through open-aired spheres of delight unabashed.
We bare our skin to the honey-tones of the sun to be browned
And we allow the moon to powder our skin and face with shimmer.

Then we grow up.

We clothe our bodies, don foot coverings, and shun the rays of the sun and moon.
We fear aging, alter our skin, dye our hair, and ‘Peter Pan’ on.
And when in the pseudo-insanity of an aged body and mind that has seized us, at last,
Let us throw off other people’s expectations.  

That is their problem.

Let us once again live in those barefoot moments, so few now, so precious.
Let us mentally run through open-aired spheres of delight unabashed.
Let us bare our skin to the honey-tones of a healing sun
And allow time to powder our hair with shimmer;

Finally to allow ourselves to eat the fruit of our labors.

I was never here.
You never saw me.
Mums the word.

If we were in one of those old British shows
I would lay my finger next to my nose.

With a brief tap
You’d know that
I was incognito.

Like a heavy stone lid
Over the vessel of my soul
You overshadowed all,
All the buds of flowers
Which within me desired
To grow.

We pranced about when
The world was that of men.
As ones who cannot behave,
As ones unbridled on keyboards.

We were meandering in music.
She said, "Follow my notes
As I now place them  
In the piano's throat."

We pranced within the notes.
The world was not for girls
But I could not behave as such,
A master of the musical work.

They hid my female touch,
That soft and light touch when
Only men could embrace the pen.
Yet, we feel your import, now.

He had said, "You put it down as me.
Until my heyday is all but gone,
As they desire to identify mine
Yours they will begin to find."

Should an army of emotions
Set up a camp against me
My heart will not fear
Though war break out against me
Even then, I will not fear
My confidence is a stronghold
When you are near.

For the sake of good fun
She came along, and
You decided she would be
A sort of a plaything
Slipped onto a keyring
And fondled when bored

Many are the days of gain in life,
And many are the losses, too.

I hope your gains are many
And I hope your losses few.

There are weeds that exists only
In the minds of short-sighted ones
Who fails to see their beauty.

They are supposed to be Supreme in the land.
Yet have become like vulture gathering
Over the Constitutional carcass to pick at its bones.
They give free reign to a man, a human to rule
Above his fellow humans.  It is a lair of jackals.

"Man’s way does not belong to him.  It does not
Belong to man who is walking even to direct his step."