Your lines are written well
Calming and beautiful
Like an observing winter moon
Reflecting through mountain
Cedar. You stir placid water.

                                           I

Believe your passion,
Trust in your lines
For they are worked with time,
Perfect peace like a cold wind -
Natures breath from an old
Experienced mountain fall that
Stirs young birch from sleep.

                                           I

Breath deeper knowing you
are close and absorbing,
Seasoned by the shrill tone of battle.
Every southern city believes
Sherman spared her due to
Love of women.

                                           I

Stand tall, defeated the perfect
Fall. The stinging water flows
Below me pure and swift
Smoothing dreadful stone.
Your passion flows through my hair.

Should I jump up as high
as I can with youthful might,
Impressing mom with a new
Found power possessed in my
Shoes.

I can fall back at any time
Laughing child delight
At the capacity of the simplest ideas.
Regressing only to fall forward.

Too lonely for a seat
I can't face all these grey clouds
That's why I'm walking on a back street.
Walking through my universe with
Sawdust on my bare feet and
My back to the shaded sun -
My foot tap - tapping to the
Drum beat.

Only hearts and lonely souls can
Smile at this sluggish mist yet
Disaster strikes and darkness rolls
I wonder on and clinch my fist.

Too deep to fly,
Too sad to cry
"Such horror and pity and pain"
My only hope is to say goodbye
To my great friend the sluggish sky.

If I stay down or rise above
Will I ever find the back street?
Will I ever hear the drum beat?

Or is the sky my only gain -
A place to find myself
And wash my hands in the
Dark rain.

Our home pure
With morning ritual
Fragrances of shaving cream,
Old Spice, and coffee.
I awoke and prepared for work
Practicing your habits.

You were an artist
Weighted down
With your clothes and hard hat.
I struggled with herculean steps
Into the room to kiss mom goodbye.
Adorned with your spare
Tool belt and giant's tools
I peddled down the driveway
Off to fix everything

I began to understand
My voice is best unheard .
For contempt of time
Brought unkempt grief.

A white padded scream,
Almost silent, rang down
The overhead streetlight and
Recalled my childhood

I caught myself listening and
Stifled a laugh.

In 79 those same buzz-lights
Distracted my quest for adventure
Under cold silver store racks -
Sensitive ears I guess.

Standing
Motionless on a stone.
Where else
To feel the sun above
The reflecting water.

One can feel out of place
In nature so warm.
Even one ant diligently working
In a five gallon drum must
Recognize seclusion.

Out of the hot sun
The shadows grow tall.
Sand and dust and quick to run
Laughing eyes - eight years young
Reaching out to kick the ball.
Excitement to pride
A sudden fall.
Whip-cracks and rocks sting
The ball bounces away
Lifeless like a rag doll
Bone chips and blood.
The shadows reach and
Touch new mud.