I have a higher shelf a pinacle that
seems empty , barren,
one made of mahogany over the ones
holding copies of Shelley, now unbound,
stocked with mementos and keepsakes
made of pine but servicable
upholding my precious things
carefully sturdy ,
to the left , a tad dusty, leaning on the
copy of Michelangelo's David bookend,
is  "In Search of Lost Time" gathering,
well, dust , now,
next to, with my fingerprints
outlining the title ,
on a timeworn cover, leans,
"Tom Sawyer" ; I can see a cane pole
figuratively jutting out from
the shelf. Above on the second shelf from the top
sits a rock, just a plain river worn smooth
everyday rock, that to anyone else would be
nothing, but, to me it is more precious than gold of the same size.
I collect special things.
And the top mahogany shelf
is empty
reserved for only vivid
memories
of
Grandma  
of that girl long ago
of when my children arrived on this earth
of a smile
from all the women I have known
also, although, invisible
only worthy for that shiny shelf are the hearts and souls
of the best people ever.
And when you visit, think again, about an
ordinary smooth rock,
and an empty mahogany
shelf.
A rock or an empty shelf
can be more
than it seems.

can you believe the sand is so warm
so gritty beneath our toes
and
holds us up?
It's like concrete with
feeling, so far away from
the suburbs type
walkways streets paved everything,
It gives a little
shifts when your weight
goes from foot to foot,
striding , leaves a trace
unseen walking down
same home after home suburbs
streets the same subdivided parts of
living, plots lain out like
cemetaries do,
only missing the headstones,
facing east.
I get hot walking but
enjoy the beach.

Few memories remain
from when I was Five.
One that does, is still alive.

Her name was Penny,
a copper colored,
old Cocker Spaniel Dog.
Mostly blind, moved only slowly
deep into her last few years.

We lived across the street about
a block from my Grade School.
How she did it I will never know,
but every day when the dismissal bell rang
at 3:00, just outside my class room door,
There all alone, Penny would be,
Her old Sweet face waiting for me.

Like clock work as if she knew
the exact time of day,
she crossed the busy avenue  
walked up the street and went
straight to my class room.
After greeting me with a lick or two,
she dutifully walked me home from school.

If a person thinks that a dog
has no real love to give,
I would politely, advisedly say
"Sadly, in this one fact, you are
greatly mistaken."

She's a messianic complex,
She's way too self-absorbed;
She's not the centre of the universe,
Nor the orbit of my world.

She's not lit beneath the spot light,
She's not the colours of a rainbow;
She's not the sun or inconstant moon,
Nor the North Star of my nights.

She's not the compass for direction,
Nor the warm winds of my winters,
Or the cool rains of my summers;
But she's my predilection,
It may sound misconstrued;
It may be a prediction,
It may as well be true:
*It's hard for me to live this life
If life's not lived with you.