you never left the warm feelings that floated into the veins under my skin, the ink that stained permanent marks a lot like your name did my mind, I remember how your eyes looked in the sun, on Sunday mornings you preferred pancakes for breakfast - ones with white chocolate chips - and you left on a windy winter afternoon for an acting gig you 'couldn't pass up', I guess you weren't that good if i could almost smell the seconds that you'd close the door shut; your scent once owned the whole place. I always knew mountains came with valleys but I didn't know that we were at the edge of the country where the city begins and another time in my life unfolds.

"Do you see the sky?" I asked
as I waited for a response.

I waited,
and waited
and waited.

I realized that there wouldn't be one,
because the conversationalist
I speak to
(in my head)
has left.

The sun sets to the north of the mountains,
if you're standing in the front yard it's hard to see.

But I see it when I dream,
when I think of happier things,
I wonder why I feel so distant,

I wonder why when I pull my irises back into the socket where they sleep.

"Do you see the sky?" I asked
You responded, finally,

with the most dismal response one could conjur

"that I do."

When all I wanted,
was to share it with you.

Below your beautiful face
There are two beautiful mountains
On the top of that each two beautiful mountains
There are two beautiful stars

Below that two beautiful mountains
There's a hole .....
A hole that you and your mother
used to link to each other

Below that hole
There's a river ...
A river that no man can ever sail it
Except for the man with success ......

No, please, I need to go.

My home glides with the river.
My friends soar above the clouds
And watch the world through their snow-speckled eyes.
My parents are the rocks
That give me purchase when there is only icy sleet.
My teachers are the swift and rough waters
That don't let the cold catch up with them.
My love is the elusive beast,
That I see out of the corner of my eye.
I can't quite see him through the dappled trees,
But I know he watches me, guides me.
My memories are of the mountains,
Of the water that roars my name,
Of the elements that made these callouses on my hands.
I travel with the wind,
The breeze whistles the tune I sing.

So, if you forgive me, I have an appointment with my life to keep.

First light, and
a chill mist.
Low bird calls.
Small and quiet,
the eldest child
zips her way
out of the tent.

Gathering
wildflowers,
she sips a bit
of mountain
water.
Reaching
up, she  
offers
her flowers
into the
crook of
a plain tree,
bowing down.

i want to roam those gentle mountains
free from the clamors of city life
nothin' but the sound of cicadas
and the feelin' of a summer breeze

i have the summer time login' for yester years
childhood memories grow sweeter each year

1

The personal is boring
as are my ruminations on the war.
What I need to do I can't try:
wander without shelter in the backcountry.
Or go deeper into the polity,
join a committee or a party.

Minute by minute and season to season
I like my life but what does it add up to, what reason
to go on? No better than a squirrel
or a spider. Spreadsheets, fake books, girls
I want too mildly, modestly or morally to have.
Can the economy and community be called love?

You can be killed and buried in gravel
Your children can be failed at school and marched to war
You can be taxed and sent to gaol for the honor of it
And there's nothing you can do about it.
Will we find the universe not large enough to hold us?
Will planet after planet be too old for us?

If you were president, what would your program be?
What one question is the key
to another's truth. How do you spend your money?
Do you believe in a god who can see
all and understand? Or is he
unable to care, a different species.

2

We take the long view
that as individuals drop
from sight, new enthusiasts
will associate. Legs
give out, lungs collapse,
but we do not let the circle lapse.

For every Aristotle
there are a million toddlers
who will advance no memorable
theories. But the mist
on trees and mountains,
sunrise over desert, are for

every merchant, traveler.
My sons will take on cares,
which toys are theirs,
as their parents grow
older. Slowness brings us
to our goal: do one thing well.

By that what is meant?
Don't be a dilettante.
Not having found the greatness
of a single, clear description,
definition, the greatness comes in
doing everyday what's known.

Dreams of mountain streams
And washing trees in the wind.
Let me leave this world
And start anew again..

Off I set with not much to tote.
Getting lost among the trees,
The mind has little to quote.
But here and there it shall roam,
Looking deeply for a small forest home.

One morning I cracked my door
And let the wind come in.
It sang songs of freedom
And hope for mankind.
But all alone a small man cottage,
Chirping songs of a free bird
But no one to hear the rhyme..