We are spirits
bound to this world,
its fate our own.
An encampment of lost souls;
banned from heaven,
with no chance to roam the spheres.
We etch out meager lives
a mere half shadow of angels,
an echo of demons lust.

They come by dawn’s early light


Just past Five am, they do an extended aerial search,
though well familiar with the shoreline and our oppo
campsites, they fly over in formation noisily debating,
which hunting grounds seem most secure, least guarded.

the scouts, numbering six, descend to the far edge of an
adjoining neighbor’s property, as always, remaining close
to the water’s edge, while the main body of these ghastly,
geesely beasts, numbering today a massive force of 42, land and storm our beach, after traversing up the earthen berms that buffer the bulkhead, and that also provides them a out-of-sight, surreptitious, secretive approach to the fresh green grass, that has emerged from two days of much needed sky watering.

Our preparations are at the ready, the old faux velvet slippers by the door, next to it our weapon of choice, a white parasol, most suitable for a tour group of tourists to follow, but this day, it is an extension of a waving arm and low growling.  Once the bevy of heads are espied bobbing spotted coming over the rise that downward slopes to the beach, the battle commences!

The two forces well known to each other, we advance slowly,
with a deliberate mien on our faces and in our step, and the enmity, I mean enemy, sees us coming and the alert is squawked, and all heads raised. they the geese, are in full dress fight or flee modality.  

We get within but a few paces when they squeak retreat, and in good order march to the beach, hoping to observe us in an early retreat and plan a sneaky return.  But we  proceed closer and they beat their wings and head to safety, and seeing us close observing their action, wisely to the water go.

But we know them well. Uncannily uncanny, they pretend to hide evasively, with semi-wounded pride nursed, while under the cover afforded by the dock. Yet, seeing our presence in attentive attention,  go forth finally to a safe distance to the wide, broad Peconic Bay.  

But this day is not yet over, for these foul fowl, counting upon human laziness and the appeal of a quick victory, paddle over to our other neighbor’s unguarded land mass and start to clamber up onto dry land 100 yards further east.

We gamely observe and realize furthest action now required,
descend to the beach, each side warily observing, regrouping.
Our approach is well kenned, and the enemy decides this day their cause is lost, and to the water retreat once more, heading around the bend, onwards to Shell Beach and West Neck Harbor.

As we return to our encampment, the bunny rabbits who,live beneath the deck emerge to give us glorious applause, for love no lost tween these two mismatched species of the same Kingdom, who share the appetite for the grasses greenest nutrients, though the geese leave their dreaded cluster bombs most unpleasant, and fully ravage the grass as if it was theirs alone.

The rabbits bring us coffee in porcelain mugs, steaming hot, for they have witnessed before this dance, most progressive, this charade of derring do, and love the quietude of the early morning, happy to share it with the itinerant beach walkers of the early hours and our
Dawn Patrol.

We drink in  our victory in deep and hot, and note per doctors orders, that our heart rate never exceeded 125 beats per minute, as ordered.

Sunday Jul 25
Silver Beach Armed Forces (SBAF!)
Peconic Beach Division

Officer Natalino (his official code name]

Black lake reflects a trail of ivory plumes,
Cockatiel's alabaster tail of feathers.
Such loveliness can only be the moon's,
Which skinny-dips in lunar altogethers.

Raccoons catch fish along the shore,
Fastidious paws clutching their prizes.
She paddles her canoe with silent oar,
Observing nature's soft nocturne disguises.

Silhouetted loons rock low upon the waves,
Asleep till sunlight sets them to their songs.
Her wake bisects the path the moon engraves,
As wilderness whispers tranquilly she belongs.

She'll stay the night foregoing comfort fire,
Moonlight enough by which to pitch a tent.
And come tomorrow should anyone inquire,
No trace reveals her overnight encampment.

Listen my children and you shall hear
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;
Hardly a man is now alive
Who remembers that famous day and year.

He said to his friend, “If the British march
By land or sea from the town to-night,
Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch
Of the North Church tower as a signal light,—
One if by land, and two if by sea;
And I on the opposite shore will be,
Ready to ride and spread the alarm
Through every Middlesex village and farm,
For the country folk to be up and to arm.”

Then he said “Good-night!” and with muffled oar
Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,
Just as the moon rose over the bay,
Where swinging wide at her moorings lay
The Somerset, British man-of-war;
   A phantom ship, with each mast and spar
Across the moon like a prison bar,
And a huge black hulk, that was magnified
By its own reflection in the tide.

Meanwhile, his friend through alley and street
Wanders and watches, with eager ears,
Till in the silence around him he hears
The muster of men at the barrack door,
The sound of arms, and the ***** of feet,
And the measured tread of the grenadiers,
Marching down to their boats on the shore.

Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church,
By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
To the belfry chamber overhead,
And startled the pigeons from their perch
On the sombre rafters, that round him made
Masses and moving shapes of shade,—
By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,
To the highest window in the wall,
Where he paused to listen and look down
A moment on the roofs of the town
And the moonlight flowing over all.

Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,
In their night encampment on the hill,
Wrapped in silence so deep and still
That he could hear, like a sentinel’s tread,
The watchful night-wind, as it went
Creeping along from tent to tent,
And seeming to whisper, “All is well!”
A moment only he feels the spell
Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread
Of the lonely belfry and the dead;
For suddenly all his thoughts are bent
On a shadowy something far away,
Where the river widens to meet the bay,—
A line of black that bends and floats
On the rising tide like a bridge of boats.

Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,
Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride
On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.
Now he patted his horse’s side,
Now he gazed at the landscape far and near,
Then, impetuous, stamped the earth,
And turned and tightened his saddle girth;
But mostly he watched with eager search
The belfry tower of the Old North Church,
As it rose above the graves on the hill,
Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.
And lo! as he looks, on the belfry’s height
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight
A second lamp in the belfry burns.

A hurry of hoofs in a village street,
A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet;
That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,
The fate of a nation was riding that night;
And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
Kindled the land into flame with its heat.
He has left the village and mounted the steep,
And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,
Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;
And under the alders that skirt its edge,
Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,
Is heard the ***** of his steed as he rides.

It was twelve by the village clock
When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.
He heard the crowing of the ****,
And the barking of the farmer’s dog,
And felt the damp of the river fog,
That rises after the sun goes down.

It was one by the village clock,
When he galloped into Lexington.
He saw the gilded weathercock
Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
And the meeting-house windows, black and bare,
Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
As if they already stood aghast
At the ****** work they would look upon.

It was two by the village clock,
When he came to the bridge in Concord town.
He heard the bleating of the flock,
And the twitter of birds among the trees,
And felt the breath of the morning breeze
Blowing over the meadow brown.
And one was safe and asleep in his bed
Who at the bridge would be first to fall,
Who that day would be lying dead,
Pierced by a British musket ball.

You know the rest. In the books you have read
How the British Regulars fired and fled,—
How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
From behind each fence and farmyard wall,
Chasing the redcoats down the lane,
Then crossing the fields to emerge again
Under the trees at the turn of the road,
And only pausing to fire and load.

So through the night rode Paul Revere;
And so through the night went his cry of alarm
To every Middlesex village and farm,—
A cry of defiance, and not of fear,
A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
And a word that shall echo for evermore!
For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,
Through all our history, to the last,
In the hour of darkness and peril and need,
The people will waken and listen to hear
The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,
And the midnight message of Paul Revere.

I.

Prideless, they tore railroad men’s brown *******
lurking the thirsty Kenyan banks.
Red moonlight sluiced from brambles and linen skins
pressing upon tawny flesh, igniting fire of feline eye.

Imperious, they patrolled the union jack encampment
lingering in shadows of long-labour’s dreamless sleep
until the smoldering campfire morning
when one hundred hammers lean in one hundred corners.

II.

Maneaters in glass houses can’t throw stony glances—
the power to haunt having run off with the ghost.
Now, they reign over the acrylic savannah
sneering—not out of regal disdain, but mild discomfort
from dust mites nitpicking at tautly taxidermed pelt.

Rebel eyes that halted an empire now cast
dull marble stares at fossils in the floor
and derailed trains of un-terrified school-children
near a hissing robot-box called Mold-A-Rama
spewing magma into plastic tyrannosaurs.

Under the primrose stars, the lovers
Lie abed, on green, threadbare croft
Of sleeping daisy, clover and moss,
Trails with hushed air, an embroidery
So fine as to stitch blushing heart fall
And wrap the waters full of stillness
In graces, winding, soft, granulating
Time, wings flutter and hum, winsome
Sparks, fire white, flying as little suns
Burst confetti, in sweet encampment,
Of grass and sapling wood, innocents,
Charmed are wholly twining, in moon
Rise a lantern to the winking heavens,
Out of their skins they are climbing.

Under the primrose stars, the lovers
Lie abed, on green, threadbare croft
Of sleeping daisy, clover and moss,
Trails with hushed air, an embroidery
So fine as to stitch blushing heart fall
And wrap the waters full of stillness
In graces, winding, soft, granulating
Time, wings flutter and hum, winsome
Sparks, fire white, flying as little suns
Burst confetti, in sweet encampment,
Of grass and sapling wood, innocents,
Charmed are wholly twining, in moon
Rise a lantern to the winking heavens,
Out of their skins they are climbing.

You forgot you were alive
Long before you died.

~

Take me again ~


Take me ~ for I am nothing without you
Tease my desires with your fingers a’ wander
Upon quivering flesh, shivering needs cry
All of this is yours, deeply offered, rhythmically played

Bite me ~ little marks to revisit at dawn
My chest, my thighs, my soul pleads
Drinking of this passion, thirsting for more
Peering up at you, wings flutter within my heart

Use me ~ as I lay here, hands on thighs… lifting
Slow circles encompass warm breaths
Moaning eclipses bring edged light from outer visions
Cupped of fevered frenzy and firm decisions

Ride me ~ I am your stallion, unsaddled, unbridled
Grip my mane, tear at my shoulders, guide me to that valley
Where whispering willows sway in mahogany waves
Finding the depths of your tightened encampment

Scream me ~ my name on your lips excites
When the comet appears and streaks the sky
Flashing sparks meld between us shimmering
Erupting in a cosmic flow of lava’d escapes…hot pulsating streams

Take me again~ for I am nothing without you

Night Rider
This is just a trip an excursion if that is alright it will weave in and out of the past the present and the
Imaginary its purpose a ripple in time for each of us a breather a drift time pressure to great and
Bothersome take this temporary exit off the beaten path into the rugged raw world of to whom some
Called savage. The story picks up with a brave mounted on a great paint coloring that is most identifiable
With Native American tribes. The place a large encampment tepees stretch for a mile down this high
Mountain meadow the rider’s duty ride the perimeter of this congress of souls that have made this
There sheltering land for the moment because they follow the dictates of nature its rhythms and
harmony they skillfully read they are at the front of this wave the human instrument that nature
displays her docility her range of emotions show in the lines of this people’s faces. The drawings on
Their ever movable homes tell the stories the time when the great storm came but the deliverance
provided by the great Spirit is depicted nature is their natural guide but it too has a master a benevolent
one then the drawing of the great battle the loss was evident on many tepees horseless rider the burial
altar built high offering this sacrifice of suffering and loss earth is bound in a struggle all who journey
here will shed tears and know sorrow but from agony tortured spring a new generation streams forth
Replenishing and building the future and in only such lovely ones can the separated be truly honored
And preserved. The village banks their fires against the night wind the rider rides on they nestled the
village up to the mountain on the north side to hamper the winds as they continue their endless quest
to dominate and wreck any or all disturbance your job take the advantage when you can the mountain
Not only is beautiful and the pine and lone coyote howling at the sorrowing moon is a well rehearsed in
much rendered paintings. What refreshing when the wind caresses the pine and its aromatic scents
Permeate with thick layers and cloak the sometime over powering affects of people in close quarters.
The west end how beautiful the arroyo what idyllic quarters for our fine mounts with out them we
would be impoverished our food would be in short supply if we had only deer and antelope but with
the horse the mighty Bison serves us with his rich bounty. Sadly this life is gone from the great plains the
mountains and the cliffs and the mesa country sometimes it is strangely carried on the wind I hope you
found it as a refreshing breeze that cleared a little bit of the clutter out of modern life. When heaven’s
Portal opened for Churchill he spoke these words I paraphrase as eternal night beacons I can hear the
Bugler blowing those mournful taps they invade and pass over innumerable army forts and fortresses
in life camp must be broken but take heart know this the same bugler who blows taps will sound revalee
at the eastern gate.

Mystique

Nameless woman you emerge from the shadows even your skin looks like it has been with the long dead
No color can be found just white as a sepulcher a sleep walker who stumbled out of agelessness back
Into time what wisdom do you hold I bid you seek life’s undertow the normal everyday will take care of
Its self splash not in strange waters but submerge yourself slowly the wise ponder and step out of sync
By this kiss you will no longer care to resist so futile are those that chase dreams that are unworthy of
Their time and effort steel bends not except by fire in this world you will tire and never win the prize
Gold has its allure in misconception ascent to the throne will not be done by glitter or brightest facets
From precious stones the risen and esteemed ones have been found in lonely camps in deepest jungle
Dwellings other searchers are drawn to them like a fine jeweled compass at length of time there visit
Ends but more importantly nonsensical rhythms that plagued the searcher has been shown its deceit
And now is rejected personnel wealth and position is now laid in the dust from where it has its origin
Now the narrow life is detested a global modification is put in its place from true center everything is
Reachable and attainable the puzzle that was always a relentless act of false starts with the only given
End it could possibly give just an embarrassing action ending in futility the waters flow without ceasing
To the sea man to acts on reflex his ultimate quest is to make a difference be remembered favorably
How he plants and sows the seeds in the fields of this world with earthen eyes they are so pleasant and
Magnificent their entire macrobiotic root system is just that the total of its end can be quantified
As natural or worse neutral it will follow all harvest it will recede with time eternal dreams have no
Substance or reality in time my lady friend was speaking out of time if you want to catch up to the steps
She has rehearsed here like other wise searchers go to the books left by the man in that jungle
Encampment that she recounted you will recognize his name it is no mystery Albert Schweitzer he had
All earth had to offer education wealth social standing he didn’t squander these grand resources he
Brought them to the highest bargaining table that could ever be found he atoned them through sacrifice
Brought them to gleaming stellar existence as fruitfulness to those in need that harvest supersedes life
And will never fail written in words of eternal flame they will always commend the persons that practice
These essential truths the lady in this piece is quiet renowned in her own right her name is Fidelity      
Unconquerable Wisdom build on her foundation and you will never come to sorrow

Under the primrose stars, the lovers
Lie abed, on green, threadbare croft
Of sleeping daisy, clover and moss,
Trails with hushed air, an embroidery
So fine as to stitch blushing heart fall
And wrap the waters full of stillness
In graces, winding, soft, granulating
Time, wings flutter and hum, winsome
Sparks, fire white, flying as little suns
Burst confetti, in sweet encampment,
Of grass and sapling wood, innocents,
Charmed are wholly twining, in moon
Rise a lantern to the winking heavens,
Out of their skins they are climbing.

Under the primrose stars, the lovers
Lie abed, on green, threadbare croft
Of sleeping daisy, clover and moss,
Trails with hushed air, an embroidery
So fine as to stitch blushing heart fall
And wrap the waters full of stillness
In graces, winding, soft, granulating
Time, wings flutter and hum, winsome
Sparks, fire white, flying as little suns
Burst confetti, in sweet encampment,
Of grass and sapling wood, innocents,
Charmed are wholly twining, in moon
Rise a lantern to the winking heavens,
Out of their skins they are climbing.

The Don knew well
That the hell
He raised
Was not on the mill
That  sobbed on the hill.

So with his quill,
He dug a tunnel
In his encampment.

©LazharBouazzi, 10 September, 2018

A phenom pursue movement
by midnight if entrained encampment
flush by her heels while quatrain will absorb
when she only a heaping there in life with
hers round circumference as deeply met
for a week if her sorcery became a tempest rife
in horsepower with such antigen that an earthquake
with even more liquefaction than mere mention
on cruises her regression must also play into her automobile
and forebode her ritual in speeding in class action.

Naysayers gonna nay say, vacayers gonna vacate.
I like that I don't have to use hate;
so strong of a word to perpetrate,
this simple feeling of discord brought up on ones own accord.
Throw your hands in the ayer
if your a straight player
of the blame game,
taking in all the shame
like a flame that maimes
consuming and fuming

Get on some level
not on my level,
its reserved for those
dare devils
who can't care
or share
but want to.

cut that can't
or won't
*******.
just don't.
its a moot point and
It ain't fair
but to be real
its about the pair
that the universe designed
and that was meant for you
to complete.
you're a night
to some ones day.
youre standing in the spotlight for some one standing back stage.  
a yin to their Yang.
the turmoil
for some ones ecstasy.
or even being alive
while your other half dies.
you never know, but that's the way the world spins.
now
Steadily peel your skin, thin, kin like.
let's not succumb to the vast misunderstanding of human aesthetics.
one just can't belong to someone that needs anything.
to truly love someone or something you must first truly love yourself.
could you love me in this skin alone, walking around unbound by blood and bones and consistency and veins.
because I could,
would
and have done.
to believe you are a shell of yourself is like being your own exoskeleton.
having an out of body experience; lying there looking up at yourself wondering why you are here at this exact moment.
and why
did all events in my life culminate to this one moment of pure universal ebbing and flowing.
now read up on shedding,
that layer you just grew out of,
is unvieling this new glove.
rise above,
this is it.
feeling fit, feeling right.
3 am. weekday night.
widen your peripheral sight
its alright,
your slight change of might
may evolutionize this transition over night.
so its time to revolutionize our position for the right.

Enveloping this
eloping of collective consciousness, knowledge and intuition,
is the slow mellow bass of the  monks on mountain tops or in monasteries;
chanting as well as enchanting beautiful sweet moments of life and strife alive in our NOW.
carrying monotonously and steadily with mellow vibrating chords this unknown marriage of the cerebral bonding of these simple words.
for they are the key to your light and might and tight nit click.
get it?

I'll slow my roll for the roll call of my souls haul and ma's tall story of how worried she was  for her curry eating potato favorite
with some bone marrow on the down low.
she may be sad; however she will be had when the cab arrives.
its funny that he thrives off her drives and my strives for money.
I hope this makes sense, but if not get some intense metaphorical pretenses
up in that co centric dome
let this be known, and let the flowers of a new era be grown upon the previously sown, drones
of past scone munching, baby punching, number crunching, people at luncheons.
who needs that mess
we've got free press
and I'll address
what I think needs said.
so go with it, go against it, either way your thinking about it.

and when the truth is spoken
you will always have your token person,
who thinks their outspoken opinion has never been a
'not to mention'
and needs to be mentioned
but the tension isn't right
because they lost most of their night contemplating their own contribution rather than
what was the plight of the group as a whole.
they may elude the **** and bareness of the truth
but when truth is exposed
all doors are closed.
one can see the hosed, declothed and opposed inmate
for what she really is.

lady liberty and me, we're a lot a like as is, but to be on some other plane **** she ain't on some plain ****.
justice is her forte and the order of the court is death by a journey to sanity and back.
we have continuously for decades been doing the same things over and over again with the same results.
by choice...
this is the opposite of the definition of insanity which is only expecting different results. we have thrown ourselves into a will full suspension of disbelief and it will be our downfall.
who was the deciding factor in this big meeting where they decided how humans would lay out their lives according to a 'normal'.
but wait, justify that.
who can, just sayin, cause she nor me can but blame on any man, woman, can can dancer or politician that has the freedoms of any human being. yeah there are morals and ethics;
but what about those reefs of coral
and jungles full of antibiotics that laugh in the face of illness. who will stand for them?  
Ahem.
we can't say one thing and do another, oh wait.
that's the human resolve to almost anything really.
we don't recall its involvement in our lives, however we let it govern this encampment we have pioneered along the edges of our souls.
Oregon trail for minds veiled seems to fail and impale the true nature of the creature ruled by outside elements all the while toiling and searching for the yearning that it may quench with only the comfort of another being.

any situation, reveals that
there is unlimited potential in this gradual change we are experiencing.
a change for the bettering of humankind.
its provocative and emotive and natural and easy and thought provoking and beauty evoking.
but I'm smoking here and its bad for me but that doesn't stop me from poking my free will into this
while I sit here and am continuously choking on my own words I can't get out in the sequence I desire.
while making what few pointless decisions I get to make in the scheme of things.

why do I get to do that?

why must there be anything else. after all, if all that we are is not spiritual but physical, physics.
then wouldn't my purpose be to completely oppose another force within this environment equally and with as much force as it exerts on me.
something like an equal and opposite reaction.
or
a completion of a pair.
I'm out to find, define, refine, get in line, make mine, and waste time with my equal and opposite reaction.
please take action,
in any case, situation, point, or debate you come to find yourself placed in at the moment.
if you don't
then don't.
I can only dream and hope for a better world for the moment.
at least until I can get into this one deeper than I am already.
those of you who don't understand this I feel for you and hope that you come across some sort of super explanatory device because I'm never going to get it out right on paper in complete thoughts all nice

Staring off into the deep cliff I have known my whole life.
Down the rocky rock face, and green tree bushes everywhere.
The everlasting encampment calls me once more to dose,
And I lost myself again through my persuasive being.

Using the green rouged plant to calm my darkness, I view the cliff.
Knowing this enchanting view so adrift, and yet so beautiful in its presence.
Realizing it’s not worth being under the influence of the plants around me.
My fault, needs to fall, its making me feel at one again.  

This fault has grounded my sorrow twofold.
My hopelessness has been ever-present that still ensues.
I can’t keep trying to view the cliff dazed and confused.
Sitting near the edge up close to these high cliffs.

This encampment suits my lazy desires.
Feeling like the greenish perch fixed along its edges.
Seeking rejuvenation and patience through this moment in time.
Just because you want it, it doesn’t mean you need this pastime.

She dances off in the distance, like a distant creek ever flowing.
My pain is off the bluff falling to the path below.
No more views with its tempting persuasion.
Her love numbs this pain oh so worthwhile.

The Don knew well
That the hell
He should raise
Would not be on the mill
That  sobbed on the hill.

So with his quill,
He dug a tunnel
In his encampment.

©LazharBouazzi

Forward one, back two, forward one,
back two
A turtle's toil, progress is a distant memory
The collapse of civilizations,
we struggle to struggle
Fortitude bends like willow branches;
encampment of silenced voices

Encumbered by greed-swine
sitting in high places savagely
devouring tax-*****
Their everyday grinding
flesh and bone into greed-blenders

We look at each other, shrug our shoulders,
do giddy little side glances, lower them
And just say, " another day, just another day."

in bare feet i want to run
sound of skin against hardwood, fleeting, fleeing
i want to hide in a too obvious place
the laundry basket in my closet
agonize for eternal minutes
hyper-alive, i want to turn off
with the solemn resolve of a crone
steeped deliciously in self-pity
holding quickened breath and fearing
the blood pounding in my ears
in the utter darkness
will give me away
even though already i want to be found
peering from my encampment to the
vertical strip of white giving away
muted shapes of loved ones seeking
their brazen little refugee
burst open, light
tugged out by slender wrists
and held tight
with no words
and that is my curse:
to be seen always as a child
dimples and all

I saw a raven on the radar tower
Looking out over fields of desolation
Cawing out his commands
To passing foot soldiers
As they talked, unaware
He was so proud and imposing
Yet ominous
Gleaming in the sun
Like a General in black
Surveying the war efforts
Of his own encampment.

Knowledge
Is the hardest
Part

Living through
The **** and
The waves of muck and
Terror that can
Sweep cities away to
A unnamed sea hardens up
A man

Makes them
See with eyes
Stained with black ink
And a fervor that ensnares
Their soul
And never lets it go; only
In death are
We free from this

The encampment was stark
As if ***** and left for dead
In a back alley gutter somewhere
In the ******* neighborhood of
New York

We had been there thirty days
But
It had felt like

Thirty years

Things you see
Stay with you
Become you
Are you

The sounds of the water
Trickling from the
Rusty spout of the prison hole
Bathroom
Became my concert hall

The drip
Was
My Mozart

One learns
To survive and
Live with oneself
Through the
Terror that man
Does bring
To other men

Be weary
Of resentment

Be cautious
Of jealousy

We are all not
God's children

Some are of
The Earth

Other's of the
Star's

But
Some...

Some have
No
Mother

At all

To live on the outside
Of forgiveness

To pray to only the sky
And yourself

To seek forgiveness from
Your fellow man

The hands weep with
The warm soft touch
Of your brother's blood

Each street paved
With the concrete
Of eternity

Now rubble or
Cobble stone
Split foreseeing that
Doom is only a singular
Part of man's future

Where there is
Separation
There is a need
For cooperation

The balance of conflict
Rests
In the hands of
Young men &
Young women

The old
Have already paved
Their way and
Leave
The rest of the world

To us

Where do you hail from?
What do you believe?
Do you see the sun setting
Atop the crystal reflected sea?

Love is stronger than hate
Hate holds itself up
By the universal uncertainty & fear
Of the common man

Plato's cave is lit
By the faint glow of
The minds of man

We can see through the
Cracks and crevices, onto
The other side

Open your eyes!

Breathe for
The first time

At last

( Sonnet )*

Under the primrose stars, the lovers
Lie abed, on green, threadbare croft
Of sleeping daisy, clover and moss,
Trails with hushed air, an embroidery
So fine as to stitch blushing heart fall
And wrap the waters full of stillness
In graces, winding, soft, granulating
Time, wings flutter and hum, winsome
Sparks, fire white, flying as little suns
Burst confetti, in sweet encampment,
Of grass and sapling wood, innocents,
Charmed are wholly twining, in moon
Rise a lantern to the winking heavens,
Out of their skins they are climbing.