Sand sifting gently through my fingers,
A dedicated time ‘til my body lingers.
Oh, to know the smell of the center of your hand,
To see into those eyes -
To feel those sighs.

Sometimes I don’t think I can wait
But then it’s too late.
How can all this be real
When I’ve not even a finger to feel?
Visions of heart – remembering soul –
Up to now that is all that I know.
I'm lost in this moment,
Chained to the sweet torment.
Inside a fire is burning
Hotter than hell – so full of yearning.

Maybe the wrong place -
Maybe the wrong time.

Is it a crime
To watch the sand as it falls?
Measuring time ‘til my body lingers
And I have you - lost in my fingers.

When my time passes
And there’s no breath left in me,
Take my ashes to the oceans
And set my spirit free.
There I can rejoin my friends
There I will not be alone.
There I can make my amends
There I won’t be unknown.

Far too much blood spilled onto this planet
Makes its way to the sea.
The raining of blood by droplet
Rejoining there finally.

Don’t leave me in the cold, cold ground.
No – No imprisoned tomb for me.
Let the waves be my stone bound
An anxious tide, my cemetery.

There I can float on endless waves
A moving monument to see.
And if you leave a tear on my grave
I can float it away with me…

Enter with me into the perfumed garden
And I shall share it with you to see.
The plants with their mating dance have already begun
Taking in the sun, the earth, the moon, the common bee,
The wind, the water – all apart of the garden’s flowering.
Every road, every footpath, every by-way does end
But they are all bordered with pinks, reds and wandering
Blues – waxed and un–waxed, tall and short with many a trend.
We are all a part of the flowering of the kingdom of Eden.
But this is my garden of truth.
A sharp swish of branch with no resin’s scent in this place.
No coarse weeds or taste of bark, only truth to sleuth
Out the fruit that lies under the covering of the human race.
Over there, do you not see the “pair” there?
Watch as they remember when they were placed on this earth.
In this garden, in those bodies, they move about here
Laughing, dancing, singing of their worth.
Their fruit undercover aching for the morning light.
Ripened pears wadded into clothing protected from frost,
Sweet melons, almost ripe, smothered in an airtight
Corsage, clinging to the fullest of crisscrossed stalks.
When the spring comes to this garden we see the perfection
Of balance between male and female qualities reflected
In the flowers’ blooms, a silhouetted combined reflection
Of male and female where the pears cling to the branch granted
Residence – Or the melon – sun bleached and **** to the taste.
For this is beauty, beauty without strength, the smallest of fingers
Reaching high into the sky, the pathway made of twigs,
Spiced heads, reddish pink stalks, with leaves like beggars
Straining to turn toward the lighted prigs.
Oh ye of little faith just look at the earth as the garden that it is.
Taste the fruit of nature’s wisdom and let spring come to your garden.
For it is we who renews the earth and all that we have to do to pass the quiz.
Use the earth’s resources wisely for we are the coachmen
Who drives the earth forward into the light.
We are like fruit clinging to a branch calling out our birthright –
This earth is our earth and we have only this chance to get it right.

Lord - if only I could be as wise as I am witty
Within as much enjoyment as I measure my melancholy,
Another thousand years of things have I to proclaim to you.
For in such a reason my mind lags along
Wanting you here inside of me to say them to.
But alas, aren’t you so far away now even as you hear me?
And what is such wisdom to a foolish heart anyway?
Yet I sing not a melody of broken spirit,
I sing of you, you who teach me daily – of fortitude
Blended with tender qualities which make you such a precious thing.
The kindest of protectors whose passive courage holds up
More than I could ever hope to overcome.
With little wit and in my truest form I must say to you,
Is it possible that you forged me out of some mistaken being?
For I feel as though I must be your total opposite.
For if I was made of the same cut as you, perhaps
I could know you more.

“Even the great oak can be cut into smaller and smaller segments.
But did not each part once live as the whole?
Is that not what we are?
What cut would you be if you were not cut from me?
What sap runs through my trunk that does not runneth into your bud?
I myself watch as you flower into your abundance.
But even the smallest of trees, the Dogwood, its leaf does bleed
Upon the whitest satin tenderness in display of my earthly sacrifice.
Think upon yourself like this:
Even upon the creation of the earth, it appears as if the lands are separate.
Were they not once a shared shore, similar to your soul.
I laid them out postulate by the great ocean’s force.
Yet is it not also true that what appears as two great separate
Bodies above the surface,
Are they not actually joined together underneath the abyss?
Neither ocean nor any rift could ever separate what roots below.
So I can hardly do it now.
To thee and thine art, which is at my root,
They are the object
Of which these acts of mine are directed.
Indeed, do I not interfere with your every project?
You rise and you go to sleep with me on your brain.”

My heavenly father - your mastery is but a sweet interference.
And if by your interference I manage to conduce any
Segment of happiness to you,
May they all be the proof of my affections of thee.
May all my inquiries become just one, one holding your honor,
Your conduct and your truth and your regard for my every direct step.
Movements measured within my desires with your assistance and assurance
Of those things that support all life.
Do you hear my declarations?

With the warmness of his hand on my shoulder with my eyes closed
Focusing on the light within me - I listen and then I know,

**“Dear one, one day we will again return from another delicious walk of your deliverance.
A walk that we will tread upon a thousand years all over again.
Here in my garden I will watch as you
Swing your arms walking within my covenant with you.
Should we pass the great oak tree cut into pieces we will ponder
The us that once laid there.
We will count the rings that measured the years that
Bear witness of the time we were separated.
I will have you always beside me, as I do with all of my children.
For hours and hours we will share in the wonders of each others' council.
I will look back on your art form, and I will admire you for it!
Every trinket that you have ever given me has within it my equaling force.
If for no other reason than for the art form that I inspired in you.
Just always try to remember that I walk hand in hand with you
In this life or in any other.
One ring around another in a never ending circle of life.
Be like the mightiest of Oaks,
Grow tall so that you can be seen by all.
All the while reaching higher and higher toward my skies.”

If I could read you like a book
I’d read you from cover to cover.
What would I find as each leaf turned over
To find me more and more hooked?

Your expression the preface?
Your walk the reference?
Your thoughts - the appendix?
You should copyright all these.

Your table of contents
Your chapters and headings,
Short stories or pretense,
Or expression of longings.

Each page a blessing
Reader and writer forever conjoined.
Read/Writing without resting
No writer’s block or pages deformed.

One page flying into another
As the story of you unfolds.
Could I be a footnoted lover
With a love that remolds?
Or perhaps the main character,
One to gray and grow old?

Placing one hand on your spine
While the other opens the divine.
Oh if only I could read you like a book
I’d read you from cover to cover

Memorize every line.

I was a planet explorer
Long before they explored
The planets

Then I was a farmer
Long before they toiled the soil
With their hapless endless rows

I was the black man, the red man
The white man and the yellow one too
Long before there was any separation

I was a cowpoke
Long before there
Were any herds

I was your cabin boy
Long before you ever planned
That well deserved vacation

I was a pioneer
Building my home of mud
Long before there were any houses

I was a stream
Before there were any streams
For I filled each one of them

With my own silvery pearls

Is there ever
A beginning
To anything
Without its end?
Or is there ever
An end
Without its beginning?
Or is it that “if” there
Is a beginning -
Then there must
Be an end?
The invalidity of
These questions
Bear witness to
The feebleness of
My human existence.

But grieve not for me
Ye simple travelers
And fair
Mystic Nymphs.
Instead – go pluck
The roses
And scatter their petals
In thy path.
For God himself
Has done no more
And ye cannot
Be better served
At his fountain
Of riches or
Show a better decorum
Than to bring ye
Rosy smelling feet
To him.

Only when one’s face is
Dressed out in the
Pearls of our tears
Are we sure that
We too are infected.
Tis’ a pity when love
Is stolen for it is
Always good though
Not of much use to
Anyone else.
But the heart is for beating,
Is it not?
There is very little
Else in it.
The scriptures say that
If we are as good as
We are handsome
That heaven shall fill it.
But reading that
Says nothing of its pleasure.

Or is the love one’s
Heart finds
Like the rose?
Once plucked
Its petals thrown
On the ground
Reminding us of
The love that
Was once whole?
If so, those petals
Must somehow
Remember us.
Of course -
That must be it.
They remember us
By the smell
Of our feet.