Friends are works of art
lovers are masterpieces
Hope is the paint brush.

I've traveled to Manhattan
walked the steps of
the Metropolitan,
Perused the desecrated
ruins of Mastaba
Tomb of Perneb
walked like the egyptian
stared into the face
of Van Gogh and wept
with the desire to
touch his strokes
as it were his hair.

Faces of a cherished
lovers are like that,
a landscape of wonder,
Hair swaying in
evergreen.

Mountains contour
in shapes of his face
the sun and moon
turn in eyes that
wake in dreams.

His mouth,
soft supple water
of a serene lake.
His mouth,
sweetly wet and deep,
sky that pulsates
and overflows into
murmurs succumbing
to the miracle
of wind song
in surrender.

Hearts of steel
Hearts of stone

Hearts of diamond
Hearts of dust

Hearts of paper
Hearts of plastic

Hearts of steel
Are strong
Sturdy
Reliable
But you can never see inside

Hearts of stone
Are strong
But from pain
In the past they were
Hot lava
But they've hardened
By the world's touch

Hearts of diamond
You can see inside
Their deepest fears
And weaknesses
But they are strong
You will never break them

Hearts of dust
Are vulnerable
Beautiful
But blown away
By the first gust of wind

Hearts of paper
Rip easily
But can be
Put back together
And be mostly the same
They record their life's pain
On their heart

Hearts of plastic
Are clear
You can see inside
They are melted easily
Damaged effortlessly
But kept safe
They are lovely
And wonderful

Hearts are not
Simply blood and tissue
They are
Steel and stone
Diamond and dust
Or paper and plastic
Or many more

*What is your heart made of?

Her soul was coated with untouchable layers
that not an ounce of rainfall
or an abundance of footsteps could damage
but the ocean was her weakness
and every time his waves sung to her,
she crumbled into his engulfing arms
even though he never stayed.

What was once a blissful flow of pitches and harmonies
spilling from tangled white wires and into my ears
became a flow of sorrow and tears,
spilling from my eyes and strolling down my cheeks
as the song and the memory joined hands
and became one,
refusing to separate
no matter how hard I tried to rip their intertwined fingers apart

I had expected the stars to be close
Enough to touch
Hanging like stranded diamonds
Deep within the confines of
The rambling universe

kiss the kids good bye,
send them out on
their own find-a-way paths,
merry or otherwise,
dispatched, once and forever,
stamped, franked, posted,
Gebbie delivered,^
the poems born, borne
   are gone

never look back,
once writ and gifted,
they are an only child,
not truly orphaned
   but without parentage

miss'ed every now and then,
see them as a drive-by victims,
hit and run casualties of passing poets,
who notifiy that they saw
"so and so"
and just wanted to
let me know,
   they're ok

but never look back,
they have been disowned,
each,
a natural birth poem,
must learn
the hard way,
to stand on its own,
tested by the cruelest proctor,
   hoary time

this is the way,
the only way,
birth mother and no more,
and this why,
some know me as,
  the poet of the way...

this is my way -
my poems are my
dispatched issue,
sent out themselves alone,
to experience
cell division,
mitosis and meiosis
spawning new poetic tissue,
find their own way of sharing
  their ancestral DNA