She feels no confusion
her lips on his eyes
blue as a mountain lake
Comfort enfolds her
like the first time
her cheek touched his
bicep as they walked
enmeshed.
Surrounded by warmth,
fear has
fallen to the trail.
Trust
fills her heart.

His photograph, dusty and fading

Finds a spot amid

Hair brushes, bobby-pins and

Packets of make-up scattered beneath

The black and white portrait,

A college photo,

rescued from an old

family album after his mother died,

when they were dancing in step

through their days.  The photo,

slightly creased, changed less

then them. Laughing has dwindled,

loving glances seldom, touching

has vanished.

A radio blares an advertisement.

A special for retouching photos

Her thoughts dwell on retouching a marriage

On retouching her life,

on keeping the photo.

arts and crafts and kids on drugs
dream catchers and storytellers
in tree-houses and sheds
bare feet and bare legs

magic

let me share
i'll cut you a slice of the skies to keep in your eyes
so you can always see beauty
and learn to accept it when it's lying in front of you
remember how gorgeous life is

sunsets and fire pits and tents pitched in the mountains
solar flares and lunar eclipses
in telescopes lenses and lovers eyes

this IS profound
and we SHOULD take note
the universe bares wonderful gifts
and we are fools to let them slip so quickly through our hands
we've been here before
and we've known each other for eons
don't go forgetting

lava monsters and yellowing pages and smiles recognizable for miles
sage brush and card games
with cowboys and poets
cheap-seat prophets bound by collective conscious and some kind of mysticism

two-track game trails and smoke rings rising from the west
find your way home

i'll hide behind my sunset eyes and river-bed curves until your return

the pendulum princess taps her pen on the desk
as the dogs whimper in their sleep
and the trees wrap themselves in the witching-hour starlight

the silence suddenly seems so frantic

i swear
i can hear my skin shrinking

the wind slithers over the roof
whispering through the moon beams
in hopes of finding someone to snuggle up with

at least i'm not the only one who's sick of sleeping alone

my body no longer feels like home
my bones creak like splintering floorboards under stubbed toes
my head's busy running in circles of constant contemplation
     am i awake
             or am i dreaming?
        was that a sigh
                or am i screaming?

buzzing like a firefly
trapped between a ***** countertop and a frosted beer mug

three weeks of bed rest
(and counting)
and all that's grown stronger
is my understanding of exhaustion

It's summertime. The saxophone  jazz
sounds are pirouettetting the waves
to find their own balance. It's a mauve

inner dance in almost everything around.
More exactly, the melodious movable
sounds become soundable movement

needing a reverberation time to dissipate  
the energy. The movement releases its  own
purity to become simple fecundity. The pulsed

sound waves are also old memories  lost in the
natural green. The saxophone  looks  much
more like a Tahitian prince dancing his love

on the sand. The singing mauve sea waves
have a sadness taste at sunset. The last one
is a watery mermaid and he embraces her

while searching the high. The sounds need
touch and life. They need to dematerialize
and to disappear into the universe. The

saxophone  remains a solitaire keeping
safe his evanescent  hermetic equilibrium.

the purple insect
shivers on a wet mushroom
morning sun will rise


cicada thunder
my summer evening dream song
give me the black moon