For some days they talk about the dead
he was a good man even his enemies say
kind friendly and very well bred
may his soul have peace they pray!

By some magic death bares goodness
hitherto unseen come to the view
you wonder the man made so much place
that when he was living you hardly knew!

All his deeds get a paint of shine
it is said he was a soul to emulate
his manners is seen as highly refined
more than the living turns dead man’s weight!

The ones who had journeyed his life
lived close to his bone and flesh
they wouldn’t know children and wife
how weighed on him his loneliness!

It’s a perfectly golden day
she isn’t loving you less
no obstacle on your way
eating up your space

though fine on surface
you feel inside unrest
of a sighing emptiness
weighing on your chest!

There’s a wind blowing strong
no speck clouds the blue
your ears get birdsong
and you don’t have a clue

what stirs the ache
that finds no easy heal
but for you to break
lose strength of will!

The petals burst in bloom
crowned in sprightly leaves
yet shrouded in gloom
you wonder why heart grieves!

Saying goodbye
To someone you love
Is like reading the final page
Of an amazing book.

As the last chapter ends
You begin to notice
Just how beautiful
And perfect
The plot always was.  

You appreciate the joy
And even the pain
As you read and thumb
Through every page.

Finally understanding
The moral of the story,
You realize you've reached
The end of this journey.

Although the last sentence  
Is the most difficult to read
Another great book awaits
Once you turn the final page.

Eventually you may stumble
Upon yet another great find.
Or maybe you'll return
To the book you left behind.

You may just discover
Once all is said and done
That this particular book  
Was your favorite story
All along.

The night
sky spills
past and
fills the store
beneath with
pools of
blue shadow
and silence,
they are all
there, the
books, on
the shelves,
waiting
ready to drop
like Sundance
and Butch
making good
their escape,
if only I'd
seen how
they'd been
squeezed
in I could
liberate them
all, wrong
verb (perhaps),
but.....
     ...... what
use will be
tomorrow's
sunrise
with no
book to read
by it's light ?

Voice feels spent this day
when death is a quarter away
and life has passed real quick
without a voice worth to speak!

Have I it properly harnessed
raised where most needed
or have it always compromise repressed
its urge for truth kept unheeded!

Did I war to blow it genuine
hushed it when demanded silence
or wore it with a fake coating
to buy peace with vain pretense!

Voice is ever enslaved to me
used as I chose to be
never able to utter its core
and life may only be a quarter more!

My answers are inadequate
To those demanding day and date
And ever set a tiny shock
Through strangers asking what's o'clock;
Whose days are spent in whittling rhyme--
What's time to her, or she to Time?