Some days sitting with my pad & pen,
I am feeling sad and blue.
But, then I remember the number two.
I realize that I am no fool.

I simply add to the end the number 2,
Then I am happy because it's so cool
To go on rhyming with this little tool.
And I can smile in the end,

With the number two as my friend.

In "a home", on hospice care at 85, I peek in on Mom:

Perhaps my mother was having a good dream.
Maybe she was on a horse or playing her piano
or running through her childhood pastures.

We have our dreams, which sustain us through life,
Even to the end. I couldn’t bring myself to **** her from them,
So I left her sleeping.

31,025 days of life come to a close.

The world in a cup-
So eager am I to sup
That I bring two straws

For miles the white path
My nose and feet are too cold
Silent crisp air fills spaces

A poem is a kind of theater in which the poet is the lyrical speaker,
Explained A. R. Ammons. - A waterfall, a rock, a man, the universe, a poem
Intimating a connection between a mind and nature.  An evocative act, action!
Shakespeare said that we are all actors strutting on a stage;
Heraclitus’ flux when standing in a stream contemplating is linked to time
And motion, unstoppable.  The motion of a universal place ruminated 
By a human knower, standing in a stream, seeking to align inner thoughts to 
The impersonal motions of our galaxy flinging wide its arms of spirals;
Contemplating that which exists outside our being.  

Yet, we too fling open wide arms and minds as we ride this planet
On its circuitous movement on that same ride in space and time
Throughout our ever-expanding universe, universes, deep into black space. 
We are leaving trails of ‘trippy-tracers’ through time, dissipating as slow
As Radioactive decay.  Particle physics, proton decay that is of
A hypothetical form of particle decay in which the proton decays
Into lighter subatomic particles, that is what we all are!
We are here in this present but rippling and ripping into a future
Just as surely as the great ice age glaciers dug and grooved

The earth on which we walk; we so slight, almost weightless beings
Mark it and take it into one’s self, one substance, one experience. 
In that moment time stands still within that rock, on this rock,
In this man’s hand.  Spinoza said a stone thrown through the air
Would think, if a stone could think, that it was the author of its own motion. 
We, like that stone, forget that we did not set our own motion.  Something 
Greater set the trajectory, not an exact path, but the movement of us!
The galaxy, this universe, the many universes, spin and move, and flow
Without being infinite.  And yet we are finite matter in motion.

Immeasurably, subject to no known limitations, duration unknowable,  
These things being outside of us and yet within us all!  We breathe the stars!
We embody the essence of all time, we recycle these precious particles! 
Plunk, the rock is dropped “to dead rest”!   Swept away with the energy.
Too much, too much motion, too much information, too much beyond a man
In danger of being taken away by the glacier, by the stream, by the spinning universe 
sinking down with that stone.  We carry within us the force which is going to undo us.
We become debris.  Entropy, a thermodynamic dictates a lack of order and yet . . .

Oh,

Shelterless, with weary-bleary eyes we look up to view the heavens.

Walking alone day after day.  I am a regular.
The giraffes know.  The elephants remember.

The carousel and I go round and round, chasing;
Never catching anything or anyone.  You are gone.

The monkeys at the zoo could never be true to you,
They told me so.  I felt quite sad about it.

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.

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.

The infinite sound of poetry
So infant-ly a part of my brain;

I lie down to read one of the multitudes of books
Collected over the years.

They will not tell me how to write or what to write.
But perhaps they will help me recover

That part of the old grey cells which always thought TV
To be the scourge of it.

A chance encounter.

So precious and fleeting is this brush of one life against another
that we may never realize the impact it has on our life or theirs.  

The impression is, nonetheless, left.
A chance encounter,

How fulfilling it can be when it is brought full circle.

O pleasure, a deep well of nectar your creamy throat
Fluted like a golden trumpet toy.

Your luscious nuggets of yellow dust our hurried feet,
As we become sweetly knee deep.

We buzz a vibrato hum. Carefully, make we our love notes
With each wing beat of gathering joy.

Your graceful tendrils entwined our tiny hearts with gifts.
Complete in our mission with bounty we lift

And homeward sing your praise.

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.

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.

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.

I grew and it made more room for me
But it also made more room for you.

Did you actually think you found love
After me? You left for her, after all.

If I could I would tell you what I know:
Love expands, it lifts up, it wants the best,

It guides our paths through darkness.
Love illuminates the way as it opens up.

It does not implode after you have died.
True love never dies no matter how one tried.

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.

The sun is out and birds begin to sing;
"Lovely" is written on the clouds that remain.
A battle of sorts breaks out between 2 mockingbirds;
You'd think that it wasn't dead of winter
But had turned to spring.

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.

At the edge of faltering light I meet the eyes that see
      me as only Beauty.

The lonely pines and the sandy soil are warmed by
      the heat of a day now gone.  

Come in now, Honey, sit with me.  
      We are the Youth of dreams.

The scent of new snow
Exquisite
Hints of other worlds

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.

There's a hard wind blowing from the north;
And the wintertime has become so harsh.
Yet, I'll not worry, not for long, because
Long before the summertime comes again
I'll be gone.

For there's silver in my wings so strong.
If I spread them wide they’ll turn to iron;
And I will fly up to the sky and across the sea.
For there's alchemy for this silver in my wings.
Yes, I'll soon be gone.

Untangle my thoughts,
Ease my troubled mind.
Caress me gently, tenderly,
So that, perhaps I may find
A gentler friend where I had not.

I look into your eyes to see
The comfort to what worries me -
Just caress me ever tenderly.
To reality let me continue blind,
Untangled in these thoughts.

The past is a foreign country.
They do things differently there.

Those things are there,
We are here.

We do things differently
Presently, see.

Some are waxing, some are waning;
Yet, throughout the seasons all are remaining.
As their little bulbed feet continue standing!

Beautiful bonnets in colors bright -
Salmon-pink, red, and candy-striped!
Each year, still, I see them as quite a sight.

Amaryllis brings my heart such delight!

We are like a car the owner can scarcely afford to keep.
America is a loud muffler sputtering,
Wired-up that was cheaply maintained.
Problem is there's a gaping big hole in it.
No patch can fix it.  
Yet, we sputter on.

Give ear, and I will speak, my love.
Hear the words of my mouth, my love.
Let my words trickle as the dew.

Let them refresh and renew, my love,
As gentle rain upon the grass
And copious showers which come at last,

My love is like that.

My brain pirouettes in realistic shadows;
The sunniest of days have passed;
Here am I in a broken body trapped.
Filled with counts, movements, of time tapping
Until it is only me and the dance;
Out of the shadow and into the bright lights.

"Tell me I am beautiful;
I feel the weight of every line,
crease, and wrinkle, just now.

Laying here in your arms
I could believe anything!"

She said.  Silence . . .her heart broke.
Suddenly a soft purring, snoring rose!
She snuggled and they both slept.

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.

Blindingly bright lights pin-point;
And then you touch.

Experiencing love for the 1st time;
Throbbing heart constricting.
A lump in the throat
Caught in a dry strangle, one gasp,
Lightheaded.  Breathe!  
Thick, dense air.
Full sensory at capacity;

And you touch, again.
Then we fall and fall and fall.

I'll start with this example of the titles of some of my own poems published here.

(One of 2 new possible titles for the new creation, but neither title from a poem already written.)
What It Becomes / What I Become

Sheltered in A Desert
Moths Like Stars
After The Storm

It Had To Be Said
I am Like a Strong Tree
The Halo of Day

Exercise 2:
Sheltered in A Desert
there were Moths Like Stars
across the sky After The Storm.

It Had To Be Said, afterward,
I am Like a Strong Tree,
like The Halo of Day.

When I see you again

I'll choke back the years . . .

of fears
of tears
of needing
of wanting
of not having
of not knowing

And you will explain
What actually happened.

An old and frustrated flower-child asks,
"Where did the love go?"
Peace, love, dope . . .

Why just yesterday, it seems
We were romping through beautiful fields
And reading such lovely poetry.

Where did the love go?  I am asking.

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.

One thing alone could end my love,
When Time has stopped my Heart,

Though you have left me, here alone
To stumble in the dark.

Then, I heard the Raven say,
"Nevermore!" today.

On the dry and empty ground
Covered in stubble brittle and bleached
Nothing exciting could have ever happened
In this barren place.
 
Yet, there, beneath them lay clues all around
Pointing to the ancient just within reach,
By an inquiring mind who goes out to seek.
They were men of that sort on bended knee.
 
The wastes between the Dead Sea
And beyond the Gulf of Aqaba pleaded,
"I am lost, come find me."
So, they unpacked their shovels, brushes & trowels,
At the foot of sandstone cliffs and started to dig.
 
Together with the Bedouins, the group slept on
A ground covered in their robes.  Strewn about lay
Piles of black ****, byproduct of copper smelting
Beckoning.  So, they ate the unleavened bread,
Just as did the freed Israelites who were fleeing Egypt. 
 
But then, of course.  Nothing ever happened here.

This chapter is now closed.
Relegated to the last vestiges,
Foggy scenes through time's mist.
Memories can become happier,

Now faded and worn.
Time's safe place, fuzzy and warm
Is like a sweater that you only pull out
For a season then pack away until next time.

I stare into supple beauty,
Shudder Sweet Man
And worship Luscious Woman.
Hard feather, smooth pleasure,
Arouse heavy morning,
Tremble breast and glisten full bloom.

I took your DNA in;
It lay around my place.
I wondered, "Will I breathe it in?"
Will part of you become part of me?
I longed for that permanence.

He was 3; issued a blanket,
It too was part of the property.
As I move into this thought
Africa becomes a coast.
I do not know it. Sandy or rock?
My mind moves into the forest,
My heart, into a village.
A toddler clings to the robe covering
The dark skin of her mother.
“Africa” the word is read,
“Place of birth: Africa”.

A simple concrete step, a stoop; it is just a step, a stoop
Until it is associated with memories of sitting, watching,
                             and waiting.

Watching life as it parades past; neighbors, strangers, cars,
things that are blown about.

All become associated with that well-worn act, repeated with
                           religious devotion,

Of spending time on a simple neighborhood stoop.

The dairy devil
Has cold hands
Pray it grabs your throat

Across the street
The heliotrope and roses meet.
Entwined they gather sweetly
Lovingly clinging in embrace.
Sigh.  I watch them.  I slow my pace.
If flowers can love as in this case,
Why cannot men of every race?

Different moments throughout our lives,
The passing of time, who we are changing
Throughout the years, evolving, letting go 
Are not unlike the participating self-evolvement
Over the course of living. Yet, disease takes away
These basic anchors of reality, time, and place,
And all the coordinates that we rely on
In every moment of our lives are suddenly lost.

I will look upon your face
And I will love it, Sweet Gentle.
I will love it, soft and tender,
Wrinkle by wrinkle.

We never know where to draw the line.  Do we?
Nor do we know when to expunge the mark.

And, when do we stick a foot into that closing opened door
Or withdraw it to allow its closing?

I say that lines are actually made of dots and dashes.  
Make your mark boldly, underline the stroke.

Grab the handle of the door
And pull it open with all of your might!

I can smell the rain coming
As the Texas heat and humidity
That had me held like plastic wrap
Around my face and body loosens;
And the cooler air sinks down to fold us.
I can breathe, feel exhilarated, want life!
Then the downburst!  Like a cow relieving itself
On a flat rock, large drops scatter, loudly, until
The tin on the roof tinkles a melodious song.
In a Texas summer, we live for days like these.

If a thought is as good as a prayer

Then I pray for you often
Throughout the day.

You are in my heart and mind
In so many ways.

If a thought is as good as a prayer
Then you should be very blessed.

Thoughts of you, dear friend,
Ascend from me to the heavens, themselves.

Thoughts are as good as a prayer, aren't they?

Crow at my window
Cawing, calling:
Come into the richness
Of the forest.

His call is tempting.