https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qrgU23IkC9w

Tick tock the stop watch goes round without a sound
counting the minutes and seconds that surround us
We live our lives quietly turning hours into making
while our dreams  wait, whether realized or not they
stay within the realm of our life's lifetime, tick tock...
There are years of building up there are years of
paring down,.  There are years of joyful giving,
then there are years , we don't count as living.
Some of us hold on to the golden ring until the end
and some of us give up long before the diner bell
Some of us rehash the same old things and habits
some of us make changes that will last a lifetime
Tick tock, the stop watch has a mind of its own .
Sometimes we live as two, and other times alone,
We cannot measure the quality of a lifetime by
just one hour. It has to be measured in the end  
of ones lifetime. Either way it  will always arrive on
time, according to our internal clocks.  Tick tock...

Take my soul and carry me to where all fantasy can bloom  
dance me all around to the music of a rhapsody divine
hold me in your arms from dusk to moon's consign  
and sing to me a tura lura one more time ;
Send me to the stars carefree as a bird in flight tee hee
glance at me behind our nook I wait for thee til' three
fold me in, roll me out, waltz me all around the room
and sing to me your tura lura one more time;
Bring me to that place where you remember well my face
dress me in white silk then place a flower in my hair
mold me to your heart I am pliable as air , let us dance,  
while we sing the tura lura song, one more time;

A heavenly feather falls slowly and lands in free  
its a symbol of angelhood and celestial mediation
Soothingly, comfortingly, a Sensei surrounds me
and showers me with blessings as I claim  reaction
and write, for I am a poet that is what I do...
An angel divine incarnate without pious duple
sincere in her approach she never cleaves fear  
for her gentleness instructs me like a Holy wimple
ministering with anoint  from close then near ;
I write, for I am a poet and that is what I do
Alabaster skies with electric blue streaks of night  
adhere to her path like a messenger of old and
claim your place in the banquet of His light
she is a paragon of love , fingers in the sand
I write for I am a poet and that is what I do.

The soul would have no rainbow if the eyes had no tears. —Native American proverb


Waterfall beauties shedding crystalline tears  
an indigo vision an outpour of emotion
she thought she was loved by him,  
wherever did she get that notion?
In the beginning it was love at first sight  
but then when they fought it never showed
like the stars that disappeared in the sky
it slowly began to die ;
Years later when she found real love  
the kind that watered the roots of her soul  
she finally learned the truth about  
the inns of Love;
Waterfall beauties shedding tears of happiness
both were wet but these ones dried quickly,  
to the sound, of her crystalline laughter.

am I made of glass or not I  see no reflection
am I solid like the flower or just mere reflection

does my scent cling onto him each time I disappear
does my spirit glow, like the star's liquid reflection

what avenue should I take to get to his garden nook
what cupid will light my path as I trail his reflection

will I be bodacious and brave enough for his heart    
will I find his looking glass of twosome reflection

am I made of glass or not this remains to be seen
am I the cognate of his chamber's light reflection  

forfeit not love for sake of lust, mirror on the wall    
forfeit him not nor what you see in his reflection  

transparent as pixie dust and never made of glass  
transparent as the moonlight in his eye's reflection.

September 1, 2020

Its the end of summer and the flowers are readying for fall
guess its just September's way of putting in her hooting call

London trees are sighing and the city folks are buying mohair
the sun is raying softer shades as we put away our lawn chairs

Writers tuck their hats and trade their benches for a cozy home
poetizing about Italian memories they pen about a trip to Rome

Here he comes Mr. Freezie by morning, Mrs. Warm by afternoon
I really did enjoy this happy summer but I think it left too soon  

its the end of summer and the flowers are finally waving goodbye,
funny how people cling more to life, when their making ready to die.

Quote:  Lend me your fire bring me your wings,  
surround me and make me feel like I'm standing
on higher ground

Autumn scents, woodsy bark, frissons and joy
me a September baby, at your employ
Send me out into the fields to gather armloads of apples
then teach me how to jump in the leaves and grapple
In the gloaming of nightfall bring your harvest o'er to me
that I may fill my dreams with color , bright and plenty
gourds, sunflowers, pumpkins and pinecone drops
let me lose myself in your golden crops
awaken me like a sweet camellia,
be my splendor-Autumn of serenity.