In the chill of the mist
we walk on the almost deserted way.

I have little to say
being filled with her beside me
and she breathes the wind in
as our lonely world spins.

Sometimes we touch as we walk
prompting her to look at me
with a veiled smile across her face
when the walk seems sweeter than happiness.

The date trees are brimming with juice, she says
the pots will be filled in no time, I affirm,
some farther and we will be there.

Something akin to love
brews with the nectar.

let me
want your future —
   one that's
   certain and sturdy
and need your now —
   where we're
   calm and quiet

where waking up
   doesn't hurt
   anymore
   because it's
   no longer
   just
   a dream

I fell for him, not in whispers or sighs,
But in crescendos, in rhythms, in skies
Painted with notes that danced in the air,
Each song a thread of the love we’d share.

He wasn’t just music—he was the sound,
The hum of the earth, the pulse underground.
A genre, a chord, a tune soft and true,
Would echo his soul, would carry his hue.

But now he is gone, and silence remains,
A hollow refrain, a ghost in the strains.
Yet when music plays, I’m drawn to the year,
I search for a sign he might have been near.

Did he hum this tune? Did he hear this beat?
Did it brush his soul? Was it his retreat?
The thought is a comfort, though bittersweet,
A harmony bridging where life and death meet.

For love like this does not fade away,
It lingers in songs, in chords that replay.
So I listen, I wonder, I dream him alive,
Through melodies where his spirit survives

I'm going to wrap a herd of
Kentucky Rainbows together.
I won't let them fly from
my arms like gauzed  gazelles.

The man who butchers
butterflies sold full ears to me.
He planted them when he
thought he was a heirloom.

These bushels of corn were
wrapped in rainbow when born.
Now if I go on vacation Im torn
because I need to plant soon

Now he wants to plant rotten
rose gardens in bloom.
He won't get married  in a
field of Kentucky  Rainbows.

I can't wait to pull kernals
of Rainbows like teeth.
I can plant them out side
my barn the size of an ark.

I sit by the door feeling
rich shucking my Rainbows.
I'll feel safe if I can plant rows
of corn able to resist a flood.

She dyed her hair pink & green.
Most people want her not to be heard or seen.
A girl too ignored to be a normal teen.
A syringe has collapsed the
creativity in her soul.
Everyone criticizes this rebel Queen.
Yet they all wonder why she can't behave.
They don't see her trying to be brave.
The taunting has made tradition seem foolish.

She shouldn't find peace in cutting.
God needs to heal the scars in her soul.
Everyone should pray for her and not
give her sour advice.
People give her warm stares that turn into ice.
This could freeze her dreams.
She stands in blue jeans with ripped up seams.
Hardships muffle her screams.
An Orphan needs a home without
moving boards or beams.
Everythings make believe in her
mind because no one ever takes the time.


Will God give someone the courage
to look at her ignored heart.
She doesnt want to be on a statistics chart.
Her appearance begs for filial love to start.
Change her but don't tear her apart.
Her creativity shouldn't be choked
like kudzu in a flower garden.
Tattooing is her preferred art.
She needs to learn to use it
in other ways besides tearing
out the car breaks.
Love turns into tragedy because
everyone leaves.


Shes been ignored.
Her feelings have been stored.
Tears have not been answered.
Smiles are forced.
Permanent homes are highly priced.
God needs to change their hearts.
Please don't judge her
by the rebal Facade.
Someday she will be loved because
theres more to her than just pink and
green dye.

Tattoos and dyed hair.
They collect dust in your dreams.
Popularity plays a duet with loneliness.
Isolation surfs on sighs and smiles.
You pull out the car breaks of your bitterness.
There’s always one more wire that you missed.
Your castles fold into a cardboard box then it all collapses.
Popularity is an antique that’s broken.
You no longer want it fixed.
Where is the syringe of cringe when you need it?
Why do you not want attention anymore?
So now you know why your younger
self doesn’t want anything to do with you anymore.
Goodbye.

Time has run through
golden fields of hay
and swam the moss-covered
ponds in the soft amber
light of dawn.

There are shards of
beauty in the
rubble of a broken life.

Those summer days
crawled
like
a

grumpy

tortoise.

Then galloped on by, like
a ******* colt.

I fed on the breast of life,
grew strong, and free.
And now,
those November birds

are

coming for me.