here he stand a hopeless boy
on this bridge with a lake
bursting full of orange coy
he looks up praying for a break
my eyes met his
the sorrow disappeared
as his hands slipped
as he fell back
tears popped from my eyes
i knew then he was gone
splash as he hit the ground
and all i could see was the
bridge

Act Accordingly

Forget that which was said

and that which was done

by whom for what and why

and perhaps embrace

even  within yourself

that which you have not loved


squeeze,

      from every last second

a joy that drips

                 down your hands

as it over flows  

                     your cup

because with so little time

left

there is no concern of tomorrow

or yesterday


what freedom you now have



Today is your last

act accordingly

(even if it isn't)

Sunshine guides my vision

away from the shadow play
of giant cottonwoods and maples,
as a north breeze gently unsettles
them. Clumps of swaying branches.

Shadows, like portrait paintings,
fall onto the pavement. Such marvel.
I must write about it -- an ode
to darkness, yin to the sun’s yang.

But soon I see the face of Pablo Neruda.
Wise, whimsical, a piercing gaze.
Of the ode, he is all-knowing. I follow
the sunshine back -- today, empty-handed.