What an odd tradition,
Ripping the living from everything they’ve known,
To be agonizingly used,
Carved and cut and shaped to fit,
Until there’s nothing left.

What an odd tradition,
The pain of one thing
Brings joy to another,
How it must feel,
To be suffering inside but appearing with a smile.

What an odd tradition,
Why are we drawn to pain and torment,
Why must we paint on a face that isn’t meant to be,
Why do we slice masks of smiles on faces aching with sorrow

Maybe it’s not such an odd tradition.

One more to add to the collection
Piled up in stacks
of memories ,
good, bad, indifferent.
They loom large like a hoarders playground..
Teetering on the edge of remembrance,
Akin to a child arcing  on the up curve of a swing in motion all joy and suspense...

The oldest of days
So compressed and worn they have become mere scraps
Postcards withe messages written
In ink  faded, jaded
Like ether riding a zephyr  they pass through your mind to tiny whirlwinds from days left behind.

This day different from any other, as are they al, closes now awaiting it's
place upon a pile
All so tall now
It was a gooday another one of love, laughter  action and rest, commonplace by many standards..

But we have  learnt
to take each day and polish it like gem.

And accept it as a blessing ..

Before resting
in order to walk
into yet another day

Will the sidewalks
of delimination
give up the steps
short of
the shoehorned dreams

Those deposed days
under autumn's oath
with prejury and prejudice

Not one of
if I am willing
but
one of Cain enAbeling
the complicated

The judge agreed
it was a first ,
in the first degree

I looked at mom
suspiciously
every time she
said
"eat your vegetables !"

~
You are
the river that runs
beneath this city.

You lend
the beautiful but empty
buildings a beating heart.

And the buildings were essential.

They were a part
of the lives unfolding
in their shadows.

Sometimes it
almost seems like
they are listening.

I'm sinking inside them.

Tell me a story
about an outgoing road,
the house where you grew up
near the Sea of Azov.

I think
I flew there once.

The birds
that perch inside my chest
sing loud, sing soft.

Maybe they
will sing again for us
tomorrow.
~

Searching for Galileo,
    the race to be first home,

In a sea of patients
    we climb the probability tree,
    walk upon the shore collecting
      memory shells,

We win the little wars,
     lose the big fight,

These windows are breathing apparatus,
     this ceiling, a blur of tungsten sky,
     rain, tears, weep,

To rest near to you,
     the technicolor sleep,
     and I died with you,

All farewells are sudden.

There was no sunrise this morning
There was only grey and rain, yet,
You will find that I won't complain,
For I love these thunderstorms and rain.

In the distance, on the overpass,
Through the smoke-like grey
A bus drives in the drizzling rain.
It is a beautiful, dreamy scene.

The faint sun strived to shine,
Yet all that it could manage is a glow
Turning dark grey to a lighter shade
Beneath the layers of heavy clouds.

Grey has long been a favorite color, and
Blankets of it can't help but comfort, so
You will find that I won't complain,
For I love the thunderstorms and its rains

And the dreamy comfort grey can bring.

I used to think chastity
was a five year old who
knew nothing about ***.
The kind of innocence
I longed for as an adult too much.
Now a ****** who knows everything.
I still hate that to this day.
Yet what’s wrong  with
a tiger striped dove?
Fight in the flight or visa versa.
A lot of people in our culture
view purity as something *****.
Yet a lot of people in our culture
view the ****** as way too cool.
Where is the balance?
There has got to be one.
Chastity to me is staying
true to the one you love.
There is so much more!

When dreams make the
shadow of their evil real ,
then walk the sodden path
of forgetfulness .
☆
Forgetting of all life , love
and tenderness of human
touch .
☆
Vanquished , youth's idyll
lay bound in silken chains of regret .
Blinded eyes plucked out ,
lay on a silver tray at his
side .
☆
Discarded and unloved .
☆
Like a meagre meal
in poverty's room ,
the soul is dissected and
eaten piecemeal by devils .
☆
While in dead of night
or blazing sun of noon ,
the stench of rotting dreams
shrouds Eternity over those deadened eyes .