If a man without arms can dream
bigger than his physical limitations
to become the best archer in the world,
if he can push beyond the frontiers
of all that has been thought possible
for a disabled person,
then why
can't we look beyond
the obstacles hemming us in,
holding us back,
filling our mind's eye
with debilitating fears?  

What would we accomplish
in our lives if we knew
we couldn't fail?  
If every day became
an honest opportunity to grow
and dream and create,
what would we do to fill our days?  

How would it feel to live our lives
unfettered from the voices
that chide us with harsh criticism?
What can we do to silence those
who oppose our dreams?
And why should we
ever again allow
another human being
to shackle or define for us
the best life we choose  to dream?  

When we recognize
that these voices are just
hollow echoes of our own
or others' insecurities,
then we begin to live
authentically,
to delve beneath
the physical depths
into an authentic life
teeming with drive
and determination.

your words cultivate my body
          into a vast garden
tended by an avid gardener's care
       seasoned hands bedeck my fields
in hyacinths, lilies, and daffodils  

        my eyes and cheeks arrayed
in swathes of color
                   a canvas path splayed
with your artistry

       through fingers you *****
                  a hanging bridge dangling
from my *******
      serpentining through hosts of trees
            atop a rushing ravine      
such dramatic whimsy
                 suspends my breath

      how your natural hands express
  my bounty in
               each blossom's fragrance
through fluttering leaves
        your lips possess  a heightened understanding    
              of what a place love can be

you carve into
                  my hip
                               a Chinese
                                                  bridge
             the crescent
                                arch    
                                          reflected

in the water's counter image
               to form our moon's fullness
         these ripened sensations
cast dew upon
my lashes and lips
          damp from night's thickening air

you are the conductor
               of my blooming season,
        whose orchestral timing
arouses from my flesh
     speckled      
          foxgloves
and contoured tulips
                              

  such musical themes erupt in me
        through your color's symphony
and when light
   descends we form
          a lover's nest
swaddled in trees

It's sad.
HP feels like a ghost town
again.
What if all of us, in a
concerted effort supported
each other as poets?
If we have nothing else,
we have each other.
And we can back each other
and read our dying art, and comment.
PLEASE.

life is honest
it has no layers

nothing to peel through
nothing to analyze

it just is

we create all our
confusion and chaos

and give it to each other
creating layers of

languages

a virus
a dis-ease

we need all this mess
to be human

and so

once again I ask
you who is more

human than me