Love, please come find me, there's no time to waste,  
Heed the clock! It's chiming eleven ---  
Scarcely time to savor but one last taste  
Of the Sweet Elixir of Heaven  

Though Autumn's love would be no less sublime
Than the rapture Spring's love can command,
As Life's hourglass marks the passage of time,
I'm panicked by the fast-falling sand!

No longer can pace be arbitrary . . .
Hope's river will soon begin to freeze;
Hurry Love, do your best not to tarry,
If need be, crawl on your hands and knees!

Faintly I hear your song in the distance --
Your divine nocturne seducing me,
And I, in my desolate existence,
Can no longer abide patiently

Winter stands ready to enter the gate,
Reminding me of Life's shortening days;
Come light the flame, Love,  before it's too late,
Lest my tears of despair douse the blaze

Soon Death will scribe my name upon his scroll.
The sun is setting . . .  let us make haste;
No longer can you and I leisurely stroll.
Come quickly, Love, we've no time to waste!

Amaryllis in the Spring
because it's a pure & innocent thing

before a summer of rockets,
debris of hope—

              the Age of Discovery,
              the Punishment of Lust

an intravenous poison of decline forms
the new math: eye value minus itself

in waltz-time the body is radio-active,
there is no such thing as labor saving machinery

ask Garbo or Monroe, very happy one moment,
the next there was nothing left

their machines did the heavy lifting,
but one was not the loneliest number

If I wait to finish my
chores,
to finish my food
all the tiny
notifiers to my superego,
my id
would wither
music, writing, commiserating,
and commiserating
eight-fold path that could
fit in my pocket

I can play
Make children with songs
that have been inside me
half a lifetime
when I picked up an axe
14 year old me
Shyer in most ways
but bolder
in interesting ways
I walked the path
humming 4 noble truths
in between theses

erratic days
I lived a myriad of lives
I fear it’s all
swirling to be the same
Circles within samsara
used to last for
months now I’m stuck for
years
and I no longer
wish to become
unconditioned

On this final walkabout, I'm not ashamed to say what friends and even strangers feign: "He grows old."

I do grow old. But I survived when too many left too early.

I feel I am being transformed, albeit, at times its seems an alarming rate that makes each new day a precious gift of gratitude I spin around me.

Despite the stooped, awkward gate and fragile skin and fondness for good friends and children and especially grandchildren I know how important it is to move over and let others have their fill as much or more than have I.

I see the white head of hair and bulging belly and bags under my eyes and note I'm not as sharp as I used to be - that last bit is frustrating - but I see no great loss to the world or even those around me. Secretly I think my former sharpness dulled on grins and nods and silence.

Oddly, I sometimes think the twinkle of an eye is a flashing beam warning those younger to steer clear of complacency and self-importance and most of all, shallow embrace.

I celebrate the release of all this - whatever life is - as this filament of joy. The memories and skills and learning and loving reforms around me. It will hold me and protect me and will ultimately be my shroud.

In a moment of hope, I wonder if only butterflies arrive at the gates of Heaven transporting back, hidden in the dust on their wings, a bit of the Soul, and then, in that special way butterflies fly, flap then glide into eternity.

Look around and tell me, who’s happy?
Isn’t happiness the goal above all?
Or rather to avoid feeling sorry
For ******* away the springtime in spite of the fall?