O little cloud,
where have you gone?
You sink to wisp or worse.
Your grayness turns bone-white,
then a cancerous blue
until you are nothing -
no, you are nothing now.
Your grave is the air
that I breathe.

I sharply decline with you;
you, up in your vault,
waiting for the densities
that will crease you into rain,
I in my mug-clutter,
my liquor-ploughed
library of ills,
try to cope,
come to grips.

Little cloud,
you died a long time ago.
You were reborn,
& died again. You've died
so many wet deaths.
I understand.
This is no world
to live in more
than a day or two.

I used to read your poems
but lately you don't write
you're silent and aloof
you know that isn't right.
You can't close a door once opened
you can't abolish all your dreams
you're a poet of the heart
mustn't fall apart at the seams.
Say what you can in words
they speak the message true
spoken from the heart
the poems will see you through.
A hermit's not your style
a recluse, you are not
never give up writing
of things that you've been taught.
I used to read your poems
I'd read them once again
if you would send them out
(this one's from a poet friend)

i bought a little budgie and put him a cage
i guess he didnt like it he began to  rage
so i bought a mirror to keep him company
hoping this would help him to be temper free.

then i bought a ladder put it in there too
now he could have some exercise like the budgies do
bought a little bell so he could make it ding
tap it with his beak so the bell would ring.

now he looked so happy i went of to bed
then when i arose the poor bird was dead
i bought all the things a budgie he might need
the only thing i never got was the budgie seed

If you long for a life of
sunny skies day after day
you will be disappointed
nothing grows in a desert
settle for a little rain now and then
and someone to share your umbrella