Writing to me
is not escape
rather ideas
to shape

to do away
with dubiety
lacuna, uncertainty
in search of clarity-

I know the limit
of my ability
I'll not venture
beyond my boundary

but to persevere only
humbly and patiently-
I'll leave no legacy
in this my endless journey.

This too will sink I know
Like the others before
This too will go
Behind shut door.

Once a place of rejoice
Where I poured my heart
Leaving is now the only choice
And make a new start.

My work is my blood of toil
Come at a high cost
Digging deep into the soil
What I grew is all lost.

I leave this holiness with pain
Will miss all you gave
Leaving the circling dots to reign
And send old poems to grave.

This could be
the last poem I
ever write.
I hope not,
but it's possible.

If it were my
last poem,
what would I want
it to say?
Wow, not so easy.

Poetry has been a
loving wife, and I
will miss her on
all those sleepless
nights, when dreams
don't come.
Writing poems have
kept me in touch
with all the harsh
pain, and all the
sublime beauty.
Both are supreme
teachers.

Poetry has opened
my ears to the
sounds of the
earth, the whispered
rush of the creek
running over stones
and sticks.
The cries of my
children in the
night wanting
their mothers'
milk.

If this were
my
last poem, I would
want it to bring
some joy and be
a bit less sentimental.
Oh well,
guess I have to
write more.

I sit in the day room of
cell block one in the county jail at
4: 30 am.  It's quiet, almost serene.
All the other inmates are asleep.
I wait for breakfast: two hard-boiled eggs,
a doughnut, juice, and milk.  
Once a week we can order books.
They will deliver them today.
I'll get Bukowski, Steinbeck, and Cervantes.
The remaining six days will
fly by.
When I'm released, I'll go under
the bridge—steal wine and
stay drunk.
I'll eat every three or four days.
It's January with record-setting
frigid temperatures.
Survival will be a challenge.
There will be an ex-girlfriend to
contend with.
I'll try to get what little
clothes that I left at her place,
that is if she didn't throw them away;
she's somewhat of a **** like that.
My two best friends who stayed under
the bridge with me, died a day
apart two months ago,
so, nothing but
ghosts and memories there now.
I'm going to miss jail.

HOW COULD THE STARS. . .

how could the stars
have forgotten you
you who held them in

the surprise of your eyes
floated them through
your wind blown hair

& untangled them
from the tortured branches
of trees

when they had lost their way
or forgotten
who they were

you who had spoken of them
when they were silent
& couldn’t find words

spoke to them
so tenderly
shaping them into poems

now the sky is bereft
only the darkness speaks
as the stars search...seek for you

I am
so
grateful

For the
stunning beauty
that my eyes
can
            still
                      see...
I am so grateful
that
       LIFE
has been mostly good
and that I can
            still
                   give thanks,  
each   and  every   single    day

                WITH A GRATEFUL HEART.