There are poems hidden in the limbs of the willow
Lines of rhyme flowing from the music of the wren
Sonnets sitting like angels atop clouds resting on hilltops
Waiting to instill those with pen and ink to script lyrics to enlighten
There are triolets among the petals of coneflowers, pink, red and yellow

For poems are the breath of our life, the sustenance of the soul
Wars recalled in verse, memories intended to calm
Songs of poetry sing messages cascading from the heart
When gods, or monsters, or disease destroy the planet
The last words, lines forming an elegy, will drift from the debris

She cupped my cheek
with the warm fingers of
her right hand
as her palm rested
on the jaw of my desire.

My body warmed slow
down to the toes
wanting to step into
the mansion of her passion.

I love you,
the words dropped
from her lips
like silver beads of
rain on the pasture
of my heart.

Swivel chair swings side-to-side
like a wind chime twisting in March's gusts.
Thoughts of the past fade in and out
reminiscent of film in a faulty projector.

Much is forgotten.
Denial of certain behaviors
shuns responsibility as whole
pages are wiped from his memory scroll.

Each night images play before him.
******, like a needle on a balloon,
burst thoughts of contentment
and feelings of tranquility.

How does one mute
static from past sins ,
to accept
the salve of forgiveness?

no silence
by the water,
flies buzz, mockingbirds
try for a Grammy
airplanes roar
land, leave
touch tarmac like
sparrows gather
crumbs beneath
the feet of tourist
who dine on patios

no silence,
by the water
no holes in the water
only holes in the sky as
contrails churn up
nature's cycle
no silence
buzz, sing, roar
no end

Do spiders ever
paint themselves into corners?
Humans often do.

Cats are said to be able
to see in the dark.**
Most of us as we age, stumble
when our feet, somewhat numb
set sail slow toward
midnight's bathroom call
bouncing like boats
against strong headwinds.

Unlike a teen boy whose sharp eyes
quickly pierce darkness, I am unable
to gather flecks of sight
in deepest night.
My eyes, like my feet
find some way to fight through
years of wear and abuse to
function enough to reach
my perch of relief.

Soon the midnight treks
will become so arduous
no sexton nor settings
will keep the strengthening winds
from blowing me
to whatever shore fate
has cast for me.

Dishes clang loud against the sink
Metal spoons bang white ceramic 
   Anger defies lifelong contract
Sacred and sealed with tears and tact
   Adhesive is this stone of hurt
Lumped solidly within her throat 
   No easy atonement comes forth
Nor minor distraction does soothe   
   Her rant gathers no audience
No recall of what stoked this fire