I have seen ghosts move in long caustic sun,
On shuffled feet, they trod through heavy airs
With eyes blanketed from all that lives growing,
Who knows how far they shall run as they walk,
Dumb before light, shimmers of grace, of flower,
The chalk in their veins flows black under moon,
To speak is to lye, river beds dry, draining forever,
And blood, blue, salted only at the ended journey.

Twisted fables don't tell it right, as time often warps perception. I say this with absolute certainty, written down in pure deception.

Each year that passes leaves lines of age, my reflection became my measure of time. Backwards clocks that won't tick in rhythm, singing songs of a life that could have been mine.

It was ages ago but I can still hear her cry, hushed whispered tones of blind prophecy. Then it led me to these chains I hate, and they claimed shadows forbid it to be.

Every morning when I wake, hopeful I step closer to the drop. Waiting for a prince they said would come, jumping might be the only way to make it stop.

I spread my arms and close my eyes, imagine majestic wings. Shadows robbed me of my sanity, and twisted fables stole my dreams.

.
Left home, ended alone,
Many travails, trials that cut,
The odyssey of his lashed life,
Took a tremulous toll of atonement,
This lamb whose only consolation,
Being left over at the jeweled altar,
The merciless downing days of droll
And loss, the cruel, blanched turnings
Of uneventful fated choice into ruin,
Never actually knowing his target,
Throwing darts at the sun..

.
In spring meadow a new song is—
Laid on an earthly table with birds
To feather nest, breaths remember,
Budding poems of leaves embrace,
All season is watered, warmly held
Dearly, bright and kept into drying
Bouquets.  Little creatures—flutter
In concords, humming with breeze
Caught fallows freed into sanctuary
Of bloom and spark, do clearly note                                                             ­    
Abundance soon will break, arrived
To reasons that trail green into fires
Of earned, autumnal transcendence,
The flowers of peak, mature fruition.
In a spring meadow, celebrations all
Thrown— confetti let loose by Gods.

Little sea,
Cast me in waters most surrounding
And ring me in kaleidoscope of reef,
Gently waving me home, promising
Deep underwater lands.

Little star,
Guide me in my mission of light,
Turn me toward the green valleys,
The blood streams, the noble orchard
And fruitions of dream.

.
Beyond the massif peaks of Europa,
Above the ancient pillars of Heracles
Where rain and ocean are weaving,
Lays a fabled kingdom born of waves
And noble strands, my beaten hearts
Haunting, the lost, lush sylvan lands
Of Galicia.
                   Where Incomparable, dark
Haired women, mythic, of Amazonian
Fairness, side the valleys and moors
Of soon forgotten dreams and secretive
Wolves slide amongst warmed runnings
Of the ram and moans of ewe, where
Way bountiful seas are over spilling,
In octopus and pearly gemmed shells,
The scalloped pilgrimages unfolding,
Where incense burns with under stars
Encased, the lost Atlantean temples
Of Egyptian sands and storied Gaels,
The clad forests of wandering Titans,

Where snow white beaches end forever
Unmapped in told footsteps, castaway,
As was the magi gift of treasured yards,
Enlightenments, of old and golden isles
Pearling the coasts, sailing the sweet airs
Crossing Iberian gates, to Elysian, eternal,
Galicia.

We can't make life start  .  .  .
Save two beings joined in love,
  .  .  .  Nor stop life ending.

Some extinct species  .  .  .
Man without tattoo, piercings,
  .  .  .  Never owned cell phone.

.
One day gone in the long great forest
Of the ancient world, wolves alone
And mighty hungered with true kin
Stalking the tundras of the snow drifts
And all their prey, with cautionary eyes
Moved in heards and flocks swaying
With the sounds of the forest floor
And the spearing grasses.  The wolf
Was his own master, free, unbounded.
A great spirit, brother to the moon.

One dying day, when the bushes burned
They came upon the garbage dumps
Of early man.  Their smoke was laden
With the smell of fresh ****, small skins,
Animals, ended trail, and salted death.
Many wolves circled in fear, their pits,
Only one or a few tasted the left overs
The easy scraps and bones, tailings,
The elder pack would not stoop for.
These few unguarded wolves morphed
And mated with each other, their mane
And fur, soon was tamed, soon became
Mottled and brown no silver remaining.
This was the fall of the wolf, not man
And the moon turned white, when wolf
Became dog.

We fall, following doors, a jarr of sun,

The pale flowering of romantic youth,

As we are painted by pictures we run,

And all new meadows a vale of bloom.