tiny white orbs swirl
eventide sparkles in flight
angel lights, love sent

the lunar light ascends.....deathless elation, celebrants, the Godhead

a toddler's summer of the wondrous....falling asleep in
fireflies' glow

Myriads of
sleeping babies,
nestled,
sighing,
dreaming on
cumulus clouds,
smiling as
the tall angels
with iridescent wings
kiss their cheeks.

She rises in the Blue Ridge mist,
her Gothic presence quite tall,
spirits of the legendary Vanderbilts exist,
they whisper within the regal halls,
when humble slob me does pass-
I wish to mingle with these ghosts of high class.

they lay flowing....shedding of crimson life, blessing of the blood givers

their lungs, their lives were cindered....burn pits afire,
our troops came home, can't breathe

dawn, in her envy, disrobes the stars, .....fair moon, sorrows in her sojourn

nightingales attend
somber, stars
soul departs, eve flight

dropkick Murphys.....smoky pubs, height of Irish rough voiced songs, Celtic gifts

mother faded....thirty years ago,
she's a living ghost, haunts me
still

This poem is not the more
traditional fare,
in fact, my humor can
actually scare,
Fartina is a twenty-five
pound, quite pooty dog,
most of the time her
poots make no sound,
But, trust me, your
olfactory sense will
know when she's around.

Debilitating flatulence
emits from her ***,
trust me, you'll run,
it isn't fun-
being in a room with her,
in fact, you'll cuss the little cur,
When salespeople come to
the door,
the only way to get them to
leave, for sure,
is to pretend Fartina is a
well mannered mixed breed,
then, when they pet her,
green clouds arise,
and their faces scrunch up,
no surprise.

She has her own waiting room
at the vet,
because her gaseous emissions
are the worst yet,
so, if you need to give your
in-laws the boot,
give Fartina a burrito,
they'll run, the old coots !!!!!

the empty people
miles long
sow the grain again

Forgiveness isn't, "I'll forgive you,
if you'll forgive me,"
its a symphony of lilacs in the
springtime fields,
and a song from the wren's
delicate heart,
its when you awaken after a
bitter night of anger melted
into tiredness, and moments
of grief turned to lavender
scented pillows lulling you
into a resplendent dream,
of white doves ascending to
Heaven carrying whispers
of the world praying,
as little workers in your mind
build a bridge of steel cables
of peace forged by God,
whether there's reunion with
those you've forgiven, or not.

arthritic, aging dog,
her fur graying,
sunning herself,
spacious backyard-
clover and buttercups,
bedsheets billowing
on the clothesline,
she daydreams of
running and leaping-
for-the-frisbee days
in her athletic past,
then she gently paws
in the air-
as a dragonfly lazily
glides by.

tribute to down's syndrome children.....you are God's flowers,
His joy, His own

mortgage was half paid
punched the clock
global virus roared

In God's House,
we assemble
and feel so
worshipful,
yet, look askance
and whisper,
feeling as if
we're more
qualified
to sit in
a pew
than those
we deem inferior,
we gossip, bicker,
in God's House,
how can we
be compassionate,
if we're not even humble,
in God's House.

In the depths, the cool emerald, bubbling depths,
a nuanced singing, a beckoning
so clearly in the brine,
pink coral and sea anemones
waving in currents,
I felt so very gifted in the
charms of the sea.

Slate-colored octopus-
dashed away with tentacles
roiling the sediment,
as schools of timid fish,
as if in flight of aimless
directions displayed bright
colors.

I thought, how could I breathe
without scuba gear-
yet, the fathoms were so deep,
and I swam with ease,
could it be but a woman mariner's dream?
Despite the elation of a humpback whale's calling medley,
I sighted him, a youthful
merman, as if he was
sculpted from God's own
Heaven's marble,
he had a muscular grace
tapered into a lower physique
with pearlescent scales and fins,
sunlight flickering over his
long hair of silken strands
bedecked with seashells,
singing with his oceanic
blue eyes that Poseidon
himself could not match,
and, of all who inhabit
the sea,
he was singing only for me.

When you, in life beyond it's own life,
passed in winter's waning rains,
you entered our sorrowed dreams,
several times you've gently
rapped on my door,
I quickly would open it-
yet, no one was there,
are you stepping down from
the cherished heights of
immortality's reach,
to invite us to a celestial
gathering of souls reposed,
singing in golden beams
with the angels?

you kept a jar of sorrows.....opened it often, many tears we've shed

If we would love like a rose,
soft petals as if a gentle kiss,
of a fragrance nostalgic of
youthful loves,
and blissfully innocent,
unknowing, of the world's woes,
gracefully poised on a trellis,
as if waiting to be asked
to dance a waltz.

He was born July 2, 1925,
son of James and Jesse Evers,
Medgar Evers of Mississippi,
World War II veteran,
fought in the Battle of Normandy,
June 1944,
with his soldier brothers
of same and other races.

He rose a leader,
a Freedom Hero,
Mississippi field secretary of NAACP,
President, Regional Council of
***** Leaders,
husband of Myrlie, her purity
of devotion,
father of Darrell, Reena Denise,
and James,
civil rights leadership of the
highest calling,
of a bravery that persevered
again.

That early morning,
June 12, 1963,
a shot of hate tore
through his heart,
he was fallen in his own driveway,
his family witnessed this
most heinous of murders
committed in the insanity
of human acridity,
the bitterness in our psyches.

June 19, 1963,
full military honors,
Arlington National Cemetery,
for a man of a character so
much more loving
than his assassin's.

We, as a people,
we must obliterate
pre-conceived assumptions,
faulty thoughts of each other.

Medgar Evers of Mississippi,
Medgar Evers of America,
posthumously awarded the
Spingarn Medal,
murdered in a country
he fought for,
merited eternally by God.

pearl string moonlight on obsidian tides.....lovers linger
on boardwalk

The sadness overtook you Tyler,
my brother of the human realm,
unfathomable waters received
you,
my brother, once of the Earth,
its binding boundaries,
now the life of God's love eternal,
for my brother in God.

In the rituals
of the life of struggle,
they work the blue collar jobs
of their parents-
grilled cheese, fries,
a shitbox used car,
scratch tickets duds,
so many of no frills,
so many barely getting by.

he knelt on his neck....he couldn't
breathe, he perished, the people's
peace burned

Perchance, my shy love,
we can unite passionately
as slumbering magnolias
awaken with the moon's
fancy,
in the summer gardens.

Ghostly ebony horses silently plodding in dust along the
slumbering mountains,
in dreams of my concealed thoughts,
the horses' dead eyes haunt
even the recesses, the yielding,
the insane reaches of my mind,
as descending melancholy
imprisons me with its blackness,
its poetic dirge, its deep knells.

A phantom pall covered coffin
pulled by these gaunt specter
horses,
this bier in shadows- who is
bourne in it ?
my mortal, it is fragments of
my heart,
which could no longer bear
the loss of the lives from-
world hunger and war.

The famished arrive in their cars,
a Mass, break the bread,
their jobs gone, pray,
brothers and sisters, pray

my cherished, in stars, arrives......
I recline in his darkest of embrace

roofers in the rain
spared from sun
chimney swifts, gliding

Will you wait for us,
Scandies Rose ?
to always be your fishermen
for eternity,
the sea with her high swells
has our bodies in her
tidal *****,
our wives in maritime loss,
you were my love, my vessel,
and you went down with us
into January's cold, cold deep,
our five souls God's to keep.

Clover and moss adornment,
fields of ancient emerald mellow,
with spring lambs innocent,
elderly farmer with a tea stained
smile.

Yet, north of there,
her people warring,
life spills on concrete,
and in the singing wind
is the song of the Troubles.

My maiden, my Eire,
are you ever at rest?
Where are your children?
Sons and daughters,
youth no more to come home,
Scars on a beauty,
she, she, will it go on into eternity?

My beauty, the souls and
shamrocks in the dew,
weep just as much as you.

Shadows of night angels
in the mist of spent mind,
awaken from half sleep,
granular eyes-
the lonely chiming
of one a.m.,
writing of
the journey,
insomnia
creeping-
an unwanted gift,
and, like a cadence,
fragmented thoughts
march on-
into an overcast dawn.

the shamrocks bleed.....Ireland's countrymen gang wars, slaying each others' dreams

walk with me, my cherish.....the
shoreline beckons, as our feet
leave hot sand

Oh, "Game Of Thrones", I miss it so, with all the good looking gents,
what's an aging poetess to do,
but lament,
the sight of Kit Harington's assets,
(no, not the **** acting!),
made me want to take a trip down memory lane, so I got
packing,
this gray old hen remembers
when-
teenage summer nights laying
on the sand, then-
getting quite sufficiently drunk
with delightful young men!

a strawberry kiss in July.....is the
sweetest of summer desires

summer, marsh concert
wind blows reeds
herons, bullfrogs' songs

In our stroll of a charmed neighborhood-
we came upon a forest green garden arch,
how the crisp white hydrangea
blooms framed it so glorious,
so abundantly,
a vision for dreams to recall,
to those desponding-
this is a balm for their
wounded thoughts,
and for lovers rejoiced in
young union,
as the graying man who
just mowed his lawn sleeps
in a hammock,
in summer snow's fragrance
of no cares.

How can the fireflies flit
from a bough to a highest place
just below the Milky Way,
without you here.

How can the blooms of summer
arise in your absence,
how can the cherish that
sparkles between young adults
conversing on a park bench -
go on, without us,
in my memory,
we walk by them,
holding hands, as,
we were once them.

Is this but a tragic dream -
as I pray over your
bedding of repose,
your gleaming white headstone,
in a long unwavering line
of other white headstones,
then, sweet assurance
speaks to me,
though the song of taps
separated us,
one day, the song of taps
will unite us.

The November 25, 1963 day of the cold sun,
the noble horses,
white horses-drawn caisson,
the dignity of their somber gait,
silver shoes resounded on the
pavement,
the skittish night-black riderless
horse-
Black Jack, led down the avenue
of the people,
his symbolic rider, no longer
bound to the earthly life, it's
sorrows.

The noble horses accompanied
him on his journey to the ages,
the mystique, the dreams,
deathless,
where the ground is hallowed-
Arlington.

The souls of the seas will be
committed to their maritime dwell,
and the reflected moon tides
shall have stars on silent waves
that mourn-
when my grieving will leave
from my earthly body,
as the mermen attend my
seashell bier in the vast of
the Atlantic.

Thorns-
tighten, encircle,
posess, pierce
bereft hearts
low,
languid,
thoughts
fall,
as if a
misery
of
chilly rain,
we didn't know
you would-
become a sudden
traveler of the universe.

you would not forgive me.....my
tears' silent song ascended to
rapt saints

I sacrificed my young life-
just like my brothers-in-arms,
the sun is rising over my
dewy, pristine, white marble
headstone,
sparrows have begun
their songs of peace
in the stately presence
of dawn,
when my parents
bring me flowers,
I wish I could go home
with them,
my blood,
a herald of my bravery,
just like my brothers-in-arms.