Whenever I go to the roof to spend some time my own
find the chunk of the past I left memories rusty grown
see there shadows of father hear his walking feet
if I strain my senses hard even hear his heart beat!

I hear there the lost footsteps in the wind faintly sighs
in the dark nooks imprints of years that quickly passed by
find there the ghost of dreams she and I had spun
their ashes now scattered from our memories long gone!

I see there the old me in the corner standing aloof
unaged ungrown my fossil on the roof
by the light of the fireflies he still searches me
rewrites in the moonglow long discarded poetry!

On the roof times are not dead they merely abscond
hide under the hyacinth of the night's silent pond
I find them lurking there sounds and sights of yore
for times once lived never go from us anymore!

The young who wizen
Leave me grieving until my breathing stops.
For  many years I wallowed
With old photos.
One of Jim sporting a cast,
Holding court with a circle of friends
In the  damp cement cellar.
No more lines to flip,
No visages to make us laugh.

I used to hear his favourite tunes
Coming from his room.
Your's is a great loss,
A terrible trouble.
At sixteen we knew he was
A young Methuselah:
Green on the vine,
Unaged wine, a bitter pill.


Dying, dying, dying.

To love him was to leave him
In his last dark hours.
No brother could do more.
I feel the soft parting touch of his warm hand
After so many years.
And you, bold , and shy of seventeen,
You wrote, and I saved it, unexpectedly:
     “Peacocks dabbling through the wind
      Were the spectrum of her eyes.”
I knew I'd use it someday.
Today.

large panel windows with a view of brick beyond
white (pristine, pure)
untouched fantasies
and
compromised realities


draped in sunlight it tastes bitter like
unaged marble, freshly cut and hung
(on a languid pointe you advance
    — a graceless ballonné)


there’s a peace to be found
in quiescent words dripping in honey   sounding across an empty room
sinking to the soles of your feet
as you dip your toes into discarded symphonies
painting them across my heart.

TRIBUTE TO STEPHEN KESHI (A DIRGE).
Our son has gone to reunite with his wife,
she left us not long ago,
She left in haste without saying goodbye.
She was young and unaged lovely to behold.
She was unwell stricken by the rough rod of
life.
She journeyed in sorrow to the white Lords,
The ones who have communed with all
knowledge,
To know the answer to all pains.
She left to meet.
He saw her leaving and bade farewell,
Awaiting her return in wholesomeness of
being having healed.
The day came, strange with Eerie note, it
was a day of despair and desolation,
A day of misery and the depth of sorrow,
A day of dirge and elegy.
Our wife has come home,
The love of our son has returned.
She came a different being motionless,
Borne on the shoulders of men in black.
The wife of our son has come a heroine,
She has come on a different tone.
She was his girlfriend, the girl of his youth.
The mother of his children.
The only true joy he has ever known.
We saw son our son's life leaving him,
Our son who was our source of joy,
A leader in the game of men in nations,
A legend whose kick and lead has brought
us victories by him we won trophies.
Our own son has left us in sorrow to reunite
with his wife.
The lady of his youth, the Love of his life.
Our son has chosen the hand of his love
from the world beyond,
Leaving behind careless his innocent
children, the very fruit of his Union.
Our son has left us in pain and sorrow,
He left us a legend, a hero,
Our son has gone the way of his wife.
Our son has gone home!
THE BIG BOSS HAS GONE HOME!

Right there in the shore of the forest,
where inspiration has known me by name,
there,right there,that very place,
where my footfall is familier to the ears of sitted grasses
To that place i resigned from my comfort zone
At dawn to pay attention to nature's call.

And right there that very place,
i saw one lying blind to the beauty earth
As being no longer of this life
Am sure,he was wrung of his own soul,
The breath in his nostril has ceased,

i saw people moving with murmuring lips forming circle round about his remain,
As they whisper in strange voices unknown to me
As he laid still motionless,
Right in that thick forest where i hover around bound with head full of reasons

Right there in that forest
they conterminate with the body of one wrung of his own soul.
In time and in season i move in alas  
pondering on the cold heartedness of men,
Still am without the knowledge of his crime
For he was young and unaged.

I aged like wine and I earned my sweetness.
Yet, my label is older and torn... So wanting someone to sample my vintage is just a  plain politic mess.
Dates need cars, looks, and less "vintage of wines."
Heroes and artists must have a fancy wrapper before their beauty can be known.
Hopelessness fills those who are in the middle of going "nowhere."
This is a gentle wind I usher in not the seeds of a storm I've tried to have grown.
Too old to date, not talking "rob the cradle,"
I'm talking about discretion, youthfulness not yet seen in me, and to create my own family.
Mistakes are forgiven more to the youth than those a little Older.
Careers are cast to those who look, act, aged little, however, failed to do their parts.
In this world, ideals and values are important.
Weigh them wrong by just one once.....
One's world becomes a lot colder.
If one is told he has "title" to be less friends he can make, less chances given
"Since older dogs cannot learn newer tricks."
He is eaten away by emptiness and being weighed by those too morally tough to see the inner being.
The true inner soul starts to  die , slowly , as it is made sick.
Not. Everyone is who they appear to be.
Loyal, honest, caring, and more bright in my individual beliefs and strong morals I wish to have shown
Enjoying fun days and being a "band" instead of a lone street guitarist sounds more worth it to me.
Looks open doors, not hearts. Until they are known.
Just like treating  each bright opportunity with an individual nature in which to award it.....feels just and unblinded.
Questions, problem solving, and less judge mental shuns of this "vintage wine" is never a taste experience left free.
If the label said and looked the way you demanded, yet, unaged wine is bland and ****.
If there was no label, yet the taste was outstanding, wouldn't such a deep drink of such is worth the investment?
Got "out with the older" and in with the newer" does work fine most of the time.
If you were to say, like wine, "older means more tasteful, wise, and bolder" can fit your spot of social and career opportunities......
Just take a sip of my wine's vintage flavor...
To get another bottle, you would travel through many cities...

Goddess of ice and steel,
she laid there
and slumbers still.

No longer needed
to retain
the powerful sword
for the
once and future King.

She snoozes
At the bottom,
mud laden dress
cluttered about
her cold pale legs,
turning to tatters
while she remains
unaged.

Once there was
a shimmering blade
that made her great
while she waited.
Now there is nothing
but wet dreams
of wizards and kings
marking unconscious time’s
passing.

No purpose
is everlasting
though she may be.

They found that lady
a millennium
or more
after the great wars,
settled like sediment
on the lake bottom,
still sleeping
while they were draining it.