There is a voice of comfort,
a poet of the truth
chords interwoven in every crack,
to lighten and to sooth.
Silken syllables singing
like distant thunders' clouds
to the lonely, humble ones
whose candles soon burn out.

A blessing from a being,
bestowed between the bad
who sat upon his whispered throne;
beaten, black and ironclad.
The boon from a saint of satin tongue
to those humanity fit;
humble thinkers, meek and strong
of kindest hearts and fathers' wit.

There is a voice of comfort,
for all who soon pass on.
When the darkness closes in
to where you thought you belonged.
It will pass you on with dignity,
mirror mentors of the Minoan
"Hineini, Hineini. Here I am,"
sings the ghost of Leonard Cohen

1680

Sometimes with the Heart
Seldom with the Soul
Scarcer once with the Might
Few—love at all.

The smell of firewood. The
Sounds it makes when burning.
Yellow light dancing on the
Paintings I made for my
Livingroom walls.

The ghost of my cat curled up
By my feet on the sofa.
Outside, the wind grabs
Branches and brushes them
Against the house.

I sit like this for hours.
Barely thinking; just being
Part of the room.
A song. A poem. Barely hidden
In the air.

Corpus as told by Jesus of Nazareth , in question
When bread molded , water dry , rendered enfeebled ,
Tis fable for hungered , emaciated , ill of mind as scavenger
surely must eat his own kind , temptation breed thirst , serenity
without regard to salvation ?

Salutations to poet and poetess , My fellow architects of the spoken word-, you are Mercury in the house of Cancer , nourishing my very soul , rain to an arid heart , and comfort to a sometimes troubled mind !..........

St. Andrews Bay has left a mark on me , where jetties battle sea
Summer storm , distant , courtesy of afternoon breeze.
Thunderheads cool white sand  , wash , clean  and renew thoughts better left to antiquity ......Orange sky ...Lightning , where gulf and sky meet.........

And, just like that,
summer,fell into fall
Pretty leaves and crisp air,
Pumpkins and  sweater weather
October is my favorite color.

The revolution left you spinning, now you’re sitting where you stood,
Can’t go back to the beginning, wouldn’t fight this if you could,
In the garden that you hated, where nothing has ever grown,
Under shadows where we waited, until the light left us alone,
With our indifferent indecision, and stolen bottles in your car,
We’ll drink until we’re happy here, happy with who we are,
Reaping the rewards of repetition, less memorable memories,
Stumbling sick with superstition in the safety of disease,
But come morning better angels will be beating down our doors,
With tools in hand, their best-laid plans will build us better wars,
Daydream a hero’s fate, but I was too late, lost on that battlefield,
Too dull to be that sword you fell on, and far too weak to be your shield,
Now left with a threadbare chair and TV glare, a dusty driver’s seat,
That unworn path and drunken sailor’s laugh, still mourning my defeat,
But I can’t go back or throw it all away, the things I never meant to be,
A castle built on compromise, a pile of clothes shaped just like me,
So maybe now is not the time to sit and count the things we’ve lost,
How can we admit defeat, when so much hell remains uncrossed?