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My notes are filled with little snippets of thought a scribble of letters, genuine but unrefined it seems that when I feel passion I lack the motivation yet when I sit down with a glass of lemonade laptop in hand and cool breeze running through my hair my mind suddenly seems to lack a single coherent thought discouragement turns the pink sugar water to mud I question how I can declare poetry my love when I have not showered it with affection in months maybe I try too hard to turn pretty what's meant to be misshapen maybe each word doesn't have to flow like a steady stream divulging the meaning of this world or the secrets in my heart maybe it's alright if a poem feels more like treading over rocks than drifting to sleep on a giant fluffy cloud maybe this is enough
!YOU AGAIN!

Your summer dress
comes to rest

upon the balcony

hung up on a thin
wire hanger

(an exotic bird)        

it cries for your body
weeps at being

parted from you
& your curves

a pool of tears
collects at its hem

as longingly it dreams of
the touch of your skin

asleep now
in the sun.

Later that evening
frightened by the approaching storm

it tries to escape
the clamour of its hanger

almost flies off
beyond the reach of my hands

run away to sea
seeking for further horizons.

I calm it
tame its panic

fold it tenderly

carry it like a dreaming
child

lay it to rest
at the foot of the bed

where all night long it sleeps
at your feet

awaiting your footstep

the sunshine
of being

you
again.
Dancing on the tightrope of a breakdown
I wonder just how good my balance is,
I teeter on the wire one careful footstep at a time.
I don’t look down; the solid concrete waits for me below
I can’t look left or right for fear I’ll lean and tip.
I focus on the other side but it’s not clearly seen-
Is it my eyes or has a fog rolled in to trick me-
To leave me stranded and precarious.
I’m developing a cramp and one toe has gone numb
But still I slide the other foot along
And grip with every particle of strength I own.
I have to make it all the way across
There is no net below to save me.
But the other platform seems so far away
And my umbrella feels as though it’s made of lead.
Why is there no cheering from the crowd-
I guess they’re fascinated by the clowns down there
And never ever bothered to look up.
ljm
A revision of something I wrote in 2005. I'm better at it now.
I burnt money
After escaping the valley
To scream at a fire
To scream at the flames

Down in the valley a few heard me
I was standing too far away
I heard the ones hearing me sighing
Clearly I heard them sighing

That was it
I screamed cause I wanted to listen
So I didn't hear anything
The fire was blazing fiercely

Flames were dancing up on me
I didn't sense the heat
I was taken in by my screaming
Screams occupied my spirit

Hmmh
Tired of screaming I fell asleep
In the valley mothers were singing
Orange lights glowing warmly

Chant whirred in the night
I slept deeply
The voices soaked into my body
That was good

The next morning I was cold
The fire had burnt to ashes
Wind carried the ash to the valley
The money was gone

I didn't want to scream anymore
I gave up screaming
A new day began in the valley
Mothers hauling children
Screams
Christmas suddenly got broken.
Who bumped the branches,
Who kicked the stand.
How did that gust of noninvolvement
Shake the bough so roughly that
A priceless piece shook loose and fell.
No hope of gathering up the shatters
Into something lovely once again.
Only sweeping up the fragments
And rearranging all the others
to make it not so obvious
That something beautiful is gone.

What will heal this wounded day.
Can one corral the scattered shards
Of joy and rescue the important one
To keep alive the gleam of hope
That is the reason to press on.
It cannot be done alone, oh no -
The task requires both hands of two
So with the rising of the sun
Will those ten fingers join with mine
To make a grasp that will not break.
ljm
Joy is not a guarantee.
There are seven wonders of the world
and I am sitting here
right here
right now
having dinner
with three of them
I have trekked scorching deserts,
leaving only temporary footprints,
upon trackless sands. Shallow etched
impressions soon erased by the wind.

Sailed upon deep ocean seas, swam
and surfed cobalt blue saline waves
skimming over colorful coral reefs.
Leaving nothing to mark my passage.

Hiked high mountain wilderness trails,
camped and slept under bright star lit
skies, decamping with not a single trace
of my transitory visit, or earthly presence.

In travel I learned meaningful values and
life lessons from people that lived in thatched
huts and never attended college or read a book.

My great grandchildren will not know me
except for some old photos and a few handed
down stories, I will not hold them, kiss their
tiny faces, or pass on anything I have learned,
that becomes my children's role. And that
will be my only lasting footprint on this earth.

This knowledge should be our goal in all
we do in our short lives. Like all living
creatures, we are but brief guest on this
earth. Destined to procreate and fade away.
While we are passing through, we should
endeavor to do as little harm as possible.
No amount of formal education can teach and
enlighten us as much as broad travel and the
exposure to the wisdom of nature.

I am grateful to have traveled and explored
diverse lands and cultures and to have
acquired broader insight gained in the
process.

I have bought things, built things,
accumulated "Stuff" much of it
meaningless in the full scope of
time and importance. My only real
ongoing accomplishment is my
family, that and understanding my
limited significance upon this Earth.

It is not what we have, it is what we do,
or do not do that matters. And above all
do no harm.
THE FOREVER FLOWER

she hands me a stalk
"The flower's dress
fell off!"

"Fix it!" she cries
I by sleight of hand
fix her flower but with a different colour

"It's a different colour!"
"The flower..." I tell her
". . .changed its dress!"

this flower
with its dress fallen off
I hold forever
AND DID THESE FEET...

Jesus is wearing
scuffed sneakers

"Made in China."

A hoodie with
the hood down.

Jesus, he's
one handsome dude.

Obviously a man
of colour.

Second Comings
are just like that difficult

2nd album.

Surely the critics
won't crucify me again

here
in an American shopping mall.

Some acapella  busking
should go down well.

The remix of
BLESSED ARE.

But it's a SIGN OF
THE TIMES

he's shot
as Prince rings out.

Jesus reaching for
the Good Book.

The white cop
who shot

claims he didn't know
what he was

reaching for...

didn't look like
no saviour to me.

Also he was obviously
a man of colour.

Blood pools
like a halo

around his
dear head.

Most people reach for
their mobile phones.

Only one passerby
kneels and prays.
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