not much chance,
completely cut loose from
purpose,
he was a young man
riding a bus
through North Carolina
on the wat to somewhere
and it began to snow
and the bus stopped
at a little cafe
in the hills
and the passengers
entered.
he sat at the counter
with the others,
he ordered and the
food arived.
the meal was
particularly
good
and the
coffee.
the waitress was
unlike the women
he had
known.
she was unaffected,
there was a natural
humor which came
from her.
the fry cook said
crazy things.
the dishwasher.
in back,
laughed, a good
clean
pleasant
laugh.
the young man watched
the snow through the
windows.
he wanted to stay
in that cafe
forever.
the curious feeling
swam through him
that everything
was
beautiful
there,
that it would always
stay beautiful
there.
then the bus driver
told the passengers
that it was time
to board.
the young man
thought, I'll just sit
here, I'll just stay
here.
but then
he rose and followed
the others into the
bus.
he found his seat
and looked at the cafe
through the bus
window.
then the bus moved
off, down a curve,
downward, out of
the hills.
the young man
looked straight
foreward.
he heard the other
passengers
speaking
of other things,
or they were
reading
or
attempting to
sleep.
they had not
noticed
the
magic.
the young man
put his head to
one side,
closed his
eyes,
pretended to
sleep.
there was nothing
else to do-
just to listen to the
sound of the
engine,
the sound of the
tires
in the
snow.

Clutch, child,
Clutch with your diminishing strength,
Clutch with your breakable nails,
Clutch to your chest.

Clutch, child, hold it tight,
Before the nostalgia comes
And removes it from your sight.

Clutch the times, clutch the places,
Clutch Mother Gooses's wings,
Clutch Daddy knowing everything.

Clutch for dear life, your innocence,
Clutch all the things you've not yet given.

Clutch to your sweet heart
Whilst it's not yet tasted bitterness,
Clutch to your soul, dear,
Before it turns to heresy.

Clutch bright- eyed sincerity,
Clutch skinned knees and easy remedies,
And for the life of us, child, clutch me.

I whisper the same words to all who pay attention
yet, to all, conveyed is a different image.

Restrained to the page I lie, free for interpretation
both depth and simplicity, words without age.

I am myself, but I am each who read me
The outlet of untold thoughts begging desperately

to be free.

I cannot see her being a troubadour
there's too much work to be done,
she only hangs around the fringes
lacking  that inner feel,
once she sang the Worlds Requiem
but her interpretation lacked punch
had she the wherewithal needed?
Her jaded baggage indeterminate now
lugs her capered turn.

Beloved, may Your eternal flame burn in me.

A fire that purifies and
illumines the darkness within
my thirsty heart.