A-walking in a cobbled street,
I breathe the brittle winter air,
the crunch of frost beneath my feet.
The early hour’s sunbeams flare.
Arising in the ice-blue sky
three stone church towers stand and wait.
Their spires point to the most high
as morning sunlight splashes paint
across their well-worn windswept face.
These turrets of a sacred keep
stand silent witness, each stone traced
by time’s sharp fingers etching deep:
I hear each crack and crevice sing
a murmured prayer for us to stand
and listen to the brass bells ring
over sunlit frosted land.

So I was shoveling snow
For no more then money
Oh no the snow!  But I was
Able to see and hear
The kid screaming with glee
As the re was a fresh snow fall
That shovelling session payed
More then just money
But joy and glee too

bless the wind that brings you a sickness
he only wishes to bring you a smell and a taste
of faraway lands and of faraway times
he wishes not to bring you this dread hiemal curse
only caress and embrace passers-by on his unending route
it is of love, not of hate that the wind makes it so
do not fault him, but bless him
the wind and his curse,
and love him for love is the only thing true
bless him, the traveler, leave a song in his current
and a kiss in his unending route
love and bless the wind that brings you such fine things as these
love and bless the wind and forgive his disease

My mind is a
Blind winter,
The wind of
inner thoughts,
thrive like a wild child,
Heart beating louder
Like thunder,
Chills spines
down inside,
Shaking, cold,
And still holding
Onto what kills me.

I can’t find a place
that’ll keep my
face warm,
In this blind winter—
I’ve been following
the whispers
of bitter souls
I conjured—

“You’ll—
                            die—
       alone—
                        in—
the—
            snow—”

I’ve been following
Traces of snow of
rewind tapes—
To moments
left paralyzed…
I feel lost in time…

In the blind
winter snow…

unlovable heart with a lot of love to give  in
no one still born to perceive it
black heart ;still not beating
locked in my room screaming and dreaming
getting this **** in

parallel universe where
i don't get beaten
by the birth givers that really didn't mean it
Man emienem is all I got ;
apart from this half pound of ***
that will make my blood here clot
stuck in a lousy hospital
ain't got the cheddar to em back
money and fame ain't all I lack
Don't even have my parents to have my back.

i met this woman with nice ol' heart
but maybe all these problems
is just gonna make us grow apart
But i really wanna love you man
just give me a shot ,
just a chance and maybe a dance

my friend came by the other day
as a leaf in the wind he has blown
from street to street
            town to town.

a wanderer he may be
but not at heart--
he longs to be attached
to a tree
                               any tree.

in spring and summer the leaves
     are green and
                              attached.

summer slowly dries them out as the tree
                    prepares for winter.

my friend the dry brown leaf
blows in his perpetual autumn.

we all grow in our own time
and season:

winter dormancy

         spring regeneration

                   summer fulfillment

                             fall  preparing for the
                                                  
          ­  inevitable
season of death.

these seasons of the soul
are the very essence of our existence.

     they teach us

        temper us

        fulfill us.

but there are those who do not see
the purpose of the seasons.
to them winter means only

                             cold

                                       snow

                       desolation.          

spring means only

                    rain

                mud

                            flooding.

summer means

                             beauty to mock
                                the heart in
                                     winter.

i trust in the wisdom of the seasons.
nature teaches us lessons in her cycles.

let the  l
                e
               a
                  f
fall to the ground.
let it rot into cold

    stark

                        winter

           desolation.

spring will come.

bleak gray will become bright colours
                  of spring.

the beauty will fade again but will
reappear in winter's own stark beauty
though it may be cold and gray.
then spring will come.

          spring-will-come !!!

Crows on wind-blown corn
citizens of winter

A naked branch awaits the spring
    when vernal vigour will awake
      the cuckoos calling on the wing.
A naked branch awaits the spring
    like distant soundless whispering
      around the icy listening lake.
A naked branch awaits the spring,
  when vernal vigour will awake.