Something I always do in Summer
Is just sit beneath my tree
Yes, my tree
Why?
Because it's about a 3 kilometer walk along a deer path
Anyway sit under that spruce with its shade giving branches
And you enter another world
The heady aroma of pine resin fills the air
Squirrels chatter in contentment over my head
I watch insects unknown to me
Walk the aerial ways
Ants in synchronized dance
The bark cracks do invade
Even in a gentle rain Mollie and I can share this space
Just sit and crack open another beer
And live for another day
No noise but natures noise
No rancid petrol or diesel fumes
Just the smell of mole turned soil
The sound of natures tunes
You know I love to sit in these lonely places
Mollie at my feet
Sit here with a pen and pad
In this special place where I and nature meet
I come here to sit and write sometimes just to think
But all to often when I leave
The pad is shy of ink
You see most of the time I'm quite content
To sit in filtered sun
Most of all I'm so elated
When I join with nature
When nature and I merge as one

Light the funeral pyre.
The fleeting fire of desire
will never keep you higher
than a space devoid of *******,
or the clever whiff of wit.
(whether or not I deserve it)
I looked you in the eyes;  I shook.
The embarrassing strength it took.
The longing I have for you
is asymmetrically split in two.
A love for the rendezvous,
but a run from the morning dew.
That's you.
But realistically,
I'll be me.
And to be free,
I'm finally happy.
And she's out there-
a heart of care,
soft, translucent hair,
some lacy underwear,
a smile to defeat despair.
Every time I doubt,
I see you there.
And then you're everywhere.
You're my sturdy, wooden chair,
and the cowlick in my hair.
And to be fair,
I've got some pretty sweet underwear.
But ****, when you’re there,
you're there.
And for me,
you're everywhere.

I want to write a poem that creates a chilling atmosphere
While orchestrating sound,
with the feeling of rhythm and blues
I want to write a poem about the unknown poets,
the ones who never lived long enough
to see their work published,
I always look to the unknown poets for inspiration
Especially the poet who wrote
“Live only for today, for tomorrow may never come”
I suppose his tomorrows weren't in the cards
I supposed he had to be a pig farmer
Deep within he knew his pigs was to be tomorrow's bacon

There’s always hope for all kind, of poems to come to light
I want to write a poem about natural beauty, and let the world
Know that it’s alright to go natural, without all the heavy makeup
I just want to write a poem, no one ever thought of writing
And that poem is all about me.

I don't know the word
for this restless almost breathless
feeling  in my chest -

the opposite of a bluebird
- a ******* crow, at best

a last call cawing
or is it a raven's kraa-kraa

this feeling -
like a shadow in clothes
- a fly in the eye of those

who pray for repose
of my soul.