We are spirits
bound to this world,
its fate our own.
An encampment of lost souls;
banned from heaven,
with no chance to roam the spheres.
We etch out meager lives
a mere half shadow of angels,
an echo of demons lust.

A cool morning breeze
sunlight on dew...
a child's laughter
and a lover's smile.
The physical pleasures
of work
good food,
maybe fine wine.
These are the end days
this is the first day...
There is no future
only the ever changing now.

A gentle breeze blows
through your window
the smell of spring fills the air,
I sneeze...

I kiss the nape of your neck
and inhale
your sweet perfume,
I sneeze...

Your cat jumps up on my lap
purring,
begging to be petted,
I sneeze...

We undress and climb into bed
our naked bodies press together;
where the dog usually sleeps,
I sneeze.

You are beautiful and I want you
but I fear my dear
I am allergic to your world,
AH...AH...ACHOO!

March began with snow on the mountains
winter's remnant of bitter white.
Yet just a months passing
and all the world is new.

Down by the river
the air seems like
a gray green mist
of new leaves just sprouting.

Some birds…I've never seen them
have moved into the air conditioner,
their babies squawk and scream
for their dinner like all babies do.

I sit and watch the gray green mist
ascend up the mountains,
and sure as season's turning
I'll watch the autumn colors descend.

As I get older that cycle;
the living and the dying,
gives me all the meaning I need,
but aren't beginnings lovely?

Hearts like toys
on Christmas day,
such fragile things.
You treat mine,
I'll treat yours
like eggshell glass.
I am too old
for that again.
For if I
pass it on,
that hurts me
too.

Women are a gateway;
a path and goal unto themselves,
you know this as I.
The­y are our way into this world
and out of ourselves.
If you are no­t careful
some pretty eyes and a tempting form
will sweep you up;
sure as shangh­aied,
to worlds and lives
you never dreamed.
After its over
you w­ill pick yourself up;
and withdraw inside,
to lick your wounds an­d cry.
Then one day...maybe while you're gardening
you will look ­up and think...
What was that all about?
And get on with your lif­e.
But then a pretty smile and a tempting form
will beckon and of­f we go again,
sure as shanghaied.

Southern summers are so ****** hot,
its sound is the drip, drip, drip
of condensation from the air conditioner,
and of sweat off the tip of your nose.
Each year I ask...
which is worse;
the long, cold, brutal Maine winters,
or the long, hot, humid Virginia summers?
The summers are worse.
You can always put on more clothes
but can only take off so many
before you’re arrested for indecent exposure;
or worse, nobody notices.
I’d rather be arrested.
There are days when flesh on the bone
is too much to wear.