Hovering, its gentle, gleam a'glitter,
Sun rays hugging so daintily the plains of grass
That it could have been akin to quiet coveting
Of their transient green so far from its grasp

Then, as if in secret rising from the earth's coat,
From blades made chartreuse with sunset's caress,
There lifts a drunken, blanketed quiet that fill-
In preparation for the night- the land's every crevasse

Upon the branches arching, merging, enweaving,
Where the last few robins had been orchestrating,
The leaves give their tiny bodies up to the fading breeze;
A waltz so natural both need not bother hesitant contemplating

In dappling, splotching, sparks of amber scintillating a hue,
The trees too the sun embraces; the shades of sunlight
Creating a calico on its surface, still dull greens and greys amidst
Its autumn forgery, aureate bleeding bright

Nocturnal symphonies crescendo in harmonic chirps, croaks, and hoots;
As sunlight spools it's last golden threads to defy it's cruel god or master,
Who reigns, an even more kingly victory, wins last of battles, drags the sun down
To horizon's prison- subterranean capture.

Step one is waking up
and writing about your day.

I want to talk about language,
your mothers cheapest wine and worst blueberry jam
staining all your best clothes with verses.
Vignettes appearing all over
the rented tuxedo from the wedding.
Dark ink and oil separates in a margarita glass
soaking into the cuts on your dry lips,
dusting your hair and the spaces
between each individual vertebrae.

Syllables dripping from the tip of your nose
and fingernails
leave novels on the linoleum and
books of sentence fragments on the hardwood.
Poets bleed into cracks on fine china
pooling into poems.
Space heaters emit quotes from dead people
I sign each word when
the analogue clock ticks,
each poem adding another minute to the day.
I’m always hoping I can squeeze in a few more hours
so I can watch the ****** orange sky
with grass in my shirt,
the Pixies mumbling in the background
leaving lyrics trapped in my teeth.

Anthologies of letters
between man and his dog
hidden onomatopoeias in every backyard.
I'll write you 364 days of the year
too many paragraphs to fill the barbecue.
Burn through pages with paper matches
making enough poems to last a decade.

Transfer phrases into the soles of my shoes,
I want to walk on water,
the "W" curled up beside my baby toe.
Every inch of the fabric we call skin,
stamps and ink pads,
turn everything to poetry.
Despite seas of fog
where breathing stops the words
from forming in your throat,
the only way to express is by experience
and frantic fountain pens.
Smoke on the balcony
writes starry sonnets about the girl in your bed
lining the waxing moon with poetry,
a **** homage to Shakespeare himself.

Serendipity;
finding something good without looking for it.
A feeling I have encountered
keeping my breathing sporadic,
rarely setting me on fire.
Living Chinese finger traps
burning blue poems on my palms
splotching the back of my neck
licking up my thigh and hips.

Let me throw away my common sense,
the final step of becoming a poet.

I read your words etched on ancient pages.
From a different time,
Drifting through the ages.
What intricate thoughts passed through your mind,
Tingled the nerves of your spine,
And escaped through the tips of your fingers.

Is it a mirror image of a generation lapsed or a talent that still lingers?
When I compare our thoughts
And write down mine.
Different as they are, the intention’s the same.
To channel your feelings that are lying inside.
And to spill them out line by line like the ink splotching over your pages.

I’ve got along way to go to match your talent.
It might take a while,
With our opposite styles.
But maybe I’ll have my words drift through to another time.
Read in the future.
Passing down our line.

Your words may not have inspired your next generation, but, please, do not worry for this one.
The sunlight of your dreams may still be realised through the eyes of your grandson.

Love is vulnerable.
you extend yourself into
someone else

hoping
wishing

I look to you as you used to look
at me until
I have to stare at myself
and realize

I never let you see
those before you
Nor did you let me see
Ones before I

Maybe you shouldn't lie.
My walls were up around me
and covered with mirrors.

and your lies were arrows dipped in ink
splotching what I wanted to see in
myself.

I open up a crack
only to be hit
and hit in the eye

I closed the crack up
only to be blind

Flowers growing in my heart..Bees will make love to their faces. Empty spaces in my chest iv yet to find  replacements...Something in your aura, foreshadowing adjacency from blazing loves euphoria.

The birds would sing about her, The trees were always watching, I often dreamed about her, until my blood was splotching..

From a mouth tasting sour from an empty stomach, and whispering from dry, cracked lips, comes desperate pleas.
Perhaps they beg for silence, or simply to be heard, but either way no desert will speak and each mouth is certainly one of these.
Each tongue is white and wrung out, then hung out to dry.
There are still always screams, and the sound of fighting, so speakers must settle to merely cry.

From red eyes, with vibrant and bright irises and endless pupils, tears threaten to slip mutely down sunken cheeks.
Silent criers with departed, desensitized beacons embedded in their faces do not plea for help nor quiet to reflect their own demeanor.
Simply secreting their eyes, they wish to see no more.
Oh, they've seen too much to continue watching!
So they press their hands to their sockets and let their tears continue splotching.

From hands, with scarred knuckles and only callused skin, there slip the tears that forced their ways between eyelids.
Something terrifying, opposing grabs at small palms and nimble fingers.
Hands tugging and pulling, they escape their bane.
Hands shaking and numbing, they begin to dull the pain.

And in their brain, chemicals and hormones cry out for the body and the mind to stop racing,
but their body image and their self esteem and worth are rapidly defacing.
Oh, this act of suicide is quite technically a crime.

Drip, Drip, Drip goes the ink from my quill. Splotching the paper as I sit frustrated with myself. Scribble and scratch as the writers block stifles me. I push to find the words but they will not come. I squeeze the pen in frustration only to stain my face with the blood of my trade. I then come to understand how easily the ink can flow and that for their work a poet must sometimes bleed.

Drips land on the window sliding
down a raggedy path, splotching an uneven
trail. Undulating smears on the glass from
drying distended drops.

There’s Mrs Wilson heading
to the shops, passing old Mrs Jacobs
bent, yet in a hurry. Each pinned beneath black
umbrellas angled to the wind. Skinny frames wrapped
in spinach like old coats. Cold poker legs move
robotically on. Unaware of our malignant
disease.

Falling heavily – splash, splatter,
halts and moves again edging towards
the finish line of each extended spoke. Like me,
each nears the cliff drop.

Shortly there’ll be a puddle this side
of the sill. You have to accept the storm
is lost  and these frames lie ditched in paint,
the acrylic **** wall breach.

People say it’s a journey that old men make
tracking back to when we just reached windows
kneeling. Then moisture evaporated
waved farewell left a lace like pattern.

Now we stand distanced from the glass
reflecting on what was lost back then as
we smell that stench of wet rot. Water has
seeped beneath the frame while I’ve
been standing here misty eyed.

Again, that almost magnetic grip loosens
as the window tilts in the wind and bumps
me into touch. Crumpled I look up to the stained glass
wondering.