chilly morning wind awakens my skin
             her mystical electric blue cat
   dances in the daylight
me green fox spirit yogas on the hill
    dilly-dallying licking air droplets
dreaming of a sacred light,
the mirror meadow is a sphere of reflection,
      A rasta moose and a few gnostic bunnies sit in a drum circle
hashing and workin out a rhythm for the dawn....
Bebop bear bares it's soul in the lapis lake,
      meditating on his thankful Mother Nature and her blacklight berry provisions,
Technicolor roses nuzzle together by the water,
          velvet vines hug willow trees created of patched fabric
as prink energy embraces the wise tai-chi eagles
      atop the ruby mountains.
Serene gardens brush away dirt blankets
        fire flowers,
  light flowers
lilac compassion illuminate the shade
autumn leaves of time flutter toward sky horizons ......
watercolored wickiups
          and spray-paint thipis rest closeby
as the timeline continues to be sewn.

Sitting here writing some of my most inner thoughts and feelings
with the padlock closeby, I am scrawling in red ink in that I visualize as blood
my inner thoughts and understandings of life
while the clock ticks away the meaningless minutes I have wasted into writing about my days

I have wrote about my happiness and wrote about my saddness
the things that makes me cry and wish I would die
and the motives of why I even stay alive
I told about the day I tried blasting my brains out, but couldn't pull the trigger to try

I've told about the man I murdered
He'd shared with me everything and I couldn't bare him finding out who or what I was
Now his blood screams from the ground, crying out to me
and I take up alcoholism as a job, a worthwhile profession to comfort me

I have told about the pregnant ******* prom night
who was stuck, wasting away wishing she could party that night
who was thinking about self aborting her child, motherhood she dared to fight
until she felt her son kick and she sobbed, tears that she tried to fight

I have told about my first love
my first kiss and how I felt higher and more pure than a dove
i told about my grandmother and how she taught me that "god is love"
switching to blue ink now, because blue is for peace

I signed my name at the bottom of each page
saying that I have become stronger with each turn of the page
I no longer feel that I have to shove the whole canister of anti-depressants down my ribcage

I wrote with red ink scrawled in blood
that was full of agony,anger, and regret
Finished in blue because I found a happy place,peace, and acceptance
I lock the padlock onto it, in order to protect my secrets
and I stop the clock by taking out the batteries to remind me that my life isn't ruled by human time
and I smile as I look into the fireplace, at my book of secrets, finally erased.

the modern ills we face
all have ancient roots
back to one old Tree
a Tree of this and that..

from the Tree a virus spread
with special virulence now..
anxious ills and worry
fueled by this and that..

few seem to know
a medicine is extant
and really here closeby..
yet mysteriously hidden
alas..in our plain sight..

a preliminary dose
is a simple location..
to find a bit of this in that
and that in this..

a spoonful will send us
on our way..
a transforming surprise
an immunizing gift..

a gift when recognized
clothes armor to confront..
new dark incursions
of the virus we now name
the familiar this and that..

yet now we might be offered
a second dose
stronger than the first
a sudden recognition
there's really More than
this and that..

this special More that
we now swallow..
a More of special beauty
enclosing only gentle hints
of our former
this and that....

Blue was his wife's favorite color
So he bought her a painted blue rose
She said she'd never seen anything like it
So she carries it where ever she goes

He woke up early one morning
To make his wife breakfest in bed
The rose lay alone on the table
Beside it his wife was found dead

The blue rose was placed on her coffin
Then removed when they lowered her down
Cast aside with the discarded trash
That was lying closeby on the ground

A little girl around nine or ten
Picked it up and took it back home
Here on vacation to visit her family
But now on her way back to Rome

She gave the rose to her Grandmother
Who carried it all the way to Japan
Who then gave the rose to her waitress
For lending her a helping hand

The waitress gives the rose to a stranger
Who was now on his way back to France
Who gave the rose to his daughter
As her whole class was watching her dance

She then gave the rose to her teacher
Who was leaving to start a new life
He was on his way to America
To be with his children and wife

He then gave the rose to his brother
Who's still grieving the death of his bride
He places the rose on her gravestone
Where it started the day that she died

there are words
beyond understanding
and those
closeby with meaning..
then there are others
standing between..
these enable our lives
invite searches
promise possibilities
of everywhere finding
a connecting light..

these connections are
overlooked often
found on borders
on our paths
unassuming..
but when gone
all disappears..
simplest perhaps
a connecting 'and'
a lighted circuit
showing anew
both this and that...

Is it raining in Tokyo
is it sunny in Sydney

I haven't asked
where you are
in a far away country
or a closeby city

don't let me disappear
love me
touch me
I don't want to vanish

wherever you are
I'll wait

there's no forever

stop walking with your head down
the chains wrapped around you
lay you down inside a puddle

I created a place
with
forever rain

I'm your hero

clouds inside my bedroom

Wouldn't it be lovely
To lose yourself
Wouldn't it be lovely
If the world turned dark.
Wouldn't it be lovely
If all felt void
Wouldn't it be lovely
If I breathed no more.

Too tired to argue
With thoughts that float closeby
Too tired.

And if I don't fit your standards
Then, you have to paint
A standard on me?
The world is your canvas
And so you smile at what you
Want to see?
I love you guys
That's as clear as can be
Love us in your standard
And in the moonlight
Let the glowing soul leave.
You've made your shells,
Why do you need their cores?
Acting like they're free...

Am I an anomaly?
Too tired to tell.
I don't want to take the time
To explain who I am.
Not every single time.
Easier to say goodbye but
I'm flying high
Too fast for me to.
Too tired.
Just let me be me.

I rise from my writing chair
Shake off my poet's robes
And step outside into a
       kaleidoscope of fallen leaves
        and hints of chimney smoke;
Dusky sky slung so low
The tall poplars scrape against it --

Summer's last cicadas are rasping out
        a catchy tune of life in the woods
And a crush of juncos has gathered
        closeby for seeds and conversation;
They know the crispy bite of
        near-winter nights is ever closer --

It strikes me
I am bound to this place with clipped
        wings, yet I feel a wanderlust
        I cannot deny.
Oh that I could fly south like
The little gray wrens mobbing my feeder.

How I aspire to be like them:
They must be so brave
        to gladly live in this world --

Goodbye
Goodbye,
Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye,
Goodbye       ...
Or so I thought I could say
Shout and scream
At your back
That stands closeby...
But it's so close
I could reach out
And touch your shoulder;
I could turn you around...
'Goodbye'
A word that is used a time too many
Too many to really signify
An end.
But in the time it takes
My tone to reach it-
Til then-
Goodbye