by the sea face in face
a child’s visage open
fraught in fear, freedom and friendship
predators, salt, sand
waves crash, rocks cut
chest crushing breaths
from watery garden sea sponge plucked
beside shells and stones
by a farcical display
feigning, fawning, flaunting: fearful now
petulant sand in shoe
soaks nothing better
no return, no exchange

Right in front of the koban
Star-B’s cramp and crammed
Not for the presently starving
Perhaps not or the Summer
With its heat reflecting tiles
Where else is boxed contentment?
But where it’s found in a moment.

droplets of honey--
your words varnish
my waking mind,
coaxing me to
leave all, behind

gone, but ever remaining
never learning
held, ever close but
never belonging
cradled light - metaphed demise

on a spring morning
melting, paraffin wax;
now a shadow of a
hand, held tight
in the deep of night

an orange sat contentedly
or so it seemed to a quick eye
its skin glowed invitingly
reflected table top sheen
only to bring a belated sigh
when all at once it rolled
and rushed and crashed
on a cold polished marble floor

Is remorse a prison to the soul
the sole utterance of reproach
that if not to myself be True
the possible best in life accrue

what if regret creeps on the morning
a thief stalking the shadow of dawn
(re)fresh from bare motive drawing
crystal arteries of a day that is new

or shall we allow the mind meander
let it's "work" find itself crowning
there in its core uncover simplicity
strip away a mournful state of heart ?

.


revolutions of the second hand
innumerable to the watchful eye
has not comforted this bruising
nor can this heart run far enough


away from the pulsing gangrene
when off the darkest mile it tread
in the cooling of a fading day that
gentle crushing fixed completely


drowning in despondent smiles
wafting wavelets forlorn, wailing,
whispering affections now silent
wanting a happier, more innocent time


.

.











In this lifetime of striving
childhood's tentative bumbling,
youth's arrogant impertinence,
middle-aged regimented conceit,
in old age, encrusted intolerance;
when will we likely ever win?







.

filled with melancholy
mood lit by lampshade
names and faces dissipate

weathered post it sticks
if only the memory did

some time, somewhere out there


someone had said
that one part of poetry
is a reservoir that holds
all the sadness of this world


What then does this say of a poet?


it is not seen how
that portion poets bear
bare on virginal leaves
all their flight and fears


are tears morphed in pressed ink