in great distress
    I must confess
that I consider it a dreary mess
Dear Joe must elevate himself again
beyond his aging frame
just to distract us from the shame
his party can't come up with a new name
for the elections

we know that old men
often are considered wise
yet would it not be better to allow
some younger candidates to rise?

the leading democratic superpower
is unable to present more
       qualified
candidates than two octogenarians?

I worry

She always walks around with a smile on her face, but inside her pride and hope is being crushed. She tells everyone, I'm okay, its nothing. But behind that "fine" and "nothing" was another tear that trickled down her cheek, and a sleepless night. She always has her guard up, and when people ask why, she doesn't want to admit that she had been hurt too many times, and each time that guarded wall just kept getting higher. She always puts effort into every little thing she does, and still feels like she will always get the short end of the stick. She always feels as if she will never be recgonized as the person she believes that she is.

She's hurt.

sometimes I think of you
   as of a gentle loving breeze
   whose caress
   makes my body ache

at other times you are the storm
in which I plunge in wild delight
and let myself be tossed
around the world

and then again
I feel surrounded
by warm playful waves
gathering force slowly
   down the stream
   then bursting forth
   in one magnificent
   deafening roar

amid the forests of my life
you are my lair
   of soft moss and leaves
   where I recline
   and live my dreams

you are the mountain
from whose top
   I look upon the deserts
   breathe blue skies

follow the flight of birds
into the sun

the tears I shed
drenched a cold spring ground
flooding the creek
that will
in time
feed waves
and take them
to you shores

salty and wild
and hard to mount
even by master surfers

the tears unshed
have built a lump of stone
lodged heavily
right in the middle of my chest

I breathe
it hurts
and makes me cry again
but will not roll away

the hill of Sisyphus rebuilt
close to my heart

during a quiet, warm twilight
with angels whispering
in our ears

we ran around the dogwood tree
and collected lightening bugs
in a glass jar
that lit up our dark night
our small world

that tiny flickering
mortal fire

living lamps
floating
flashing
in a glass jar

and with angels whispering in our ears
all we knew was love.

I'm tired of that
Humpty Dumpty
kind of love,
proud and walled
up,
falling
shattered into a
thousand tattered
pieces.

Love drives between
the lines.
It doesn't rush
headlong into
oncoming traffic,
taking the lives of
others.

It's never
cruel or brutal.

It comforts the sick.
It doesn't think with
its ****.
It doesn't leave when
times get tough.
it buckles down through
this rough and tumble
game we call life.

Your raven hair drapes
my bronzed back.
I attack your neck and
*******, beamed by the
moonlight, I carry you to
Nirvana on a chariot made
of steel.