Like I was missing something
that was never there,
something created in my mind -
  a feeling,   a friend,
  just pretend.
                      Comfort.
                       Trust.
                       Care.

      peace .
All parts inside me,
perhaps a 'second set of eyes'
helped ta reveal
what was difficult to see -
  in me,  by me,
but, mirrored in another's eyes,
I have.  finally.


and now a bud grows on my windowsill from something I truly thought I'd lost -  the one I thought I'd killed.
but there it is:  Beauty,  Hope,
in dawn's orange light.
what was gone, now is New,
by no fault of mine.

the,  potentially,  "Best Day Ever".
    i meditate,   prepare,
then shower  and step out.
         Here we go,   again
              we shall see
          I'll take notes
              for what could be
            
             the "best day ever"
one More time,    again

  again
..
shedding skin.


shedding skin.
out with the old
in with the truth -
Finding who I am
when I don't have  a  'you'

again.
   Shedding skin.

to Original colors
stripped down past the blue,
revealing the real me,   set free
not just    what I've been through.

Finding myself   all over again.
shedding skins

The call to Oblivion
gets harder to resist
A desire to be numb
so obviously persists

a flame shadow-boxes a dance
with it's reflection in a cup
the scent of sandalwood
burns rings in the dark

taking too long to stand, forcing straight
the back of a now older man

before turning to bed & book

clicking of the nightstand lamp
straining eyes & resting mind
seek the comfort of thoughtless dreams
that drift through the night

sweet

Reminisced with the Wind,
starting my day off early
'tween two train cars
bound for Jersey.
Broke down and bought me
first pack of smokes in months
loaded up for days on coffee
and skipping lunch.

Bells play a tune
as bright as snow
across the field where I sit
on a bench in the cold
Churches lock their
doors in the states,
no one goes in
when it's not Sunday.

When the sun hides its eyes
you find other places to pray.
Kinda missing the warmth
of those French summer days.


... and it's not true what she said,
Its not an,"ex (i) can't get over,"

its a feeling .

one little thing at a time
                 ...and bring a pen.



I feared i might sober up
and there wouldn't be much to write,
but slowing down to take a look,
moving at the pace of life,

not rushing it,
but taking it as it is,
seems so much more now to jot down,
I can hardly keep up with pen.

This is where the real poetry is,
and where it's always been...

Those loooong Journeys
cross-countries by foot,
and deeper still,
on more spiritual quests within.

Strolling along without worry or care,
relying on faith without understanding of a godlike dose of "luck"
that seems ta always just,     be  here.

The poetry is in the moment
when it's written, where it's found,
life exciting, breathing, be still and
          witness it all around.

Beauty headed to Brooklyn
on the N train
And I can't help but
noticing

Of course, I was waiting
for the R
But instead
boarded the same car

To look at legs
in form fitting jeans,
And try to make eye contact
  just once before she leaves ....

The sun goes up
and down,
as days come
and go.

But time
is starting again now,
to move
so
      slow...



Gone is the warmth of
a friend like summer,
leaves severed dead
and cold.

My mind is set free
to wander,
but flesh seems tired
and old.

How other's spirit's rise
is a puzzle,
my highs, like the season,
just fall.

I feel a longing to
disappear in a crowd,
and sleepwalk there
with them all.