He grasps stardust in his
Hands
Sand they turn truly lovely
In one hand 

The edges glint golden rusty and Brown they turn

The color of lovely shriveled  late 
Autumn leaves
They sink soundly to the ground
 
Smell of raw;
Earthy taste moist like rich bread and wine
 So red his lips have not 

The look of innocence
Stripped  naked like bark chiseled wood

How I would love them forever

My vain endeavour

Still he lays partially
Amongst the blotchy patch of shade as

The
Tree 
Lovingly sways 
To the sound of his

Coos
Darling he sleeps as the Sheep watch over him

My little Sheppard boy
Dreamingly sound
May rippling waters of your subconscious mind settle to shore

Tides emerge in deepest
Blue
Violently crash into the
Crimson colored  rocky edge of the 
Stone face cliff
Now faced with thick
Cumulonimbus clouds that 
Cloud the dawn's last fiery 
Light

Streaks of lightening
Silhouette whip upon his
Face and like thunder the
Lions 
Roar not in pain 
But in vigorous anger as
The ringmaster bows at the
Choking applaud of the
Painted audience

The wind unweaves grassy tangles in your hair
Tormenting  suitors 
Tease; 

You messily please
Imperfectly perfect that you are able to 
Appeal as effortlessly
Dressed in natures blend
Like a jar of 
Roasted nuts
Of assorted trail mix

Still
You lay there 
Decorated in earth's blankets of roots Grass
Twigs leaves

Oh
How it hurts to leave
I'd sit here loving you

Instead 

Twist peering down upon
Deepest desires
Swept in eternal sleep

Longingly
I join your slumber
Drift into dream where I 
May wake up finding you
Beside me
Where sleep steals me upon
Your shoulder 

Warmth of arms lightly
Grasped
Dawn red as a match in the
Distance slowly 
Smothered
Surrendering to nights cold
Silence

But the stars 
Whispers of compliments to
The moon

Each night loved you kindly
Each star a kiss upon your
Cheek

May the stars love you Sweeter than they have Loved me

But darling I've loved you 
Forever

Light's patterns freeze:
Frost on our faces.
Light's pollen sifts
Through the lids of our eyes ...

Light sinks and rusts
In water; is broken
By glass ... rests
On deserted dust.

Light lies like torn
Paper in corners:
A rock-pool's pledge
Of the sea's return.

Light, wrenched at the edges
By wind, looks down
At itself in wrinkled
Mirrors from bridges.

Light thinly unweaves
Itself through darkness
Like foam's unknotting
Strings in waves ...

Now light is again
Accumulated
Swords against us ...
Now it is gone.

Society in peril,
Morality on the fringes,
The sound of a bullet leaving its barrel,
The sound of a casket’s lid closing at its hinges,
Oh, somewhere our better half cringes.

For every person looking to preserve life,
There are four others looking to destroy it.
Though compassion is our signature tool,
Oh, only a handful of us ever employ it.
There is no neutrality when our conscious hearts fail.
If our better angels remain silent, our darker halves prevail.

Everyone has one ounce mercy,
Three pounds sympathy,
Angelic grace,
Godly uniqueness,
Divine understanding,
And a two-ton war machine.

Everyone has a two-ton war machine.

Festering in heat,
Moral fabric unweaves.
Desecration,
Denigration,
Desiccation,
The remains of a sacred bond left tattered by deceit.
The sound of a stained glass window shattered by thieves.
Oh, somewhere our better half grieves.

The enigmatic future inches nearer,
An ambiguous choice becomes clearer,
The sound of rattling, an empty heart,
Battling, an empty mind.
The sound of hurried footsteps…
And there are others not far behind.
The blind guiding and seeking the blind,
Oh, somewhere our better half searches to find…
A shelter from all of these two-ton war machines.

Everyone has a two-ton war machine.
 
Everyone has one ounce mercy,
Three pounds sympathy,
Angelic grace,
Godly uniqueness,
Divine understanding,
And a two-ton war machine.

The pain lingers,
Morality rests in tatters,
Miniature death-bringers,
The sound of a bigot’s daggers,
The sound of a depressed man’s gun facing backwards…
After he decides that nothing else matters.
Oh, somewhere our better half staggers.

Everyone has one ounce mercy,
Three pounds sympathy,
Angelic grace,
Godly uniqueness,
Divine understanding,
And a two-ton war machine.

Everyone has a two-ton war machine.

The temperature escalates,
Morality thrown out with the spoils,
The sound of tension as it elevates,
The sound of blood as it boils,
Oh, somewhere our better half recoils.
Because everyone has a two-ton war machine.

A guilty conscience, a burdened soul, a heavy heart,
And a two-ton war machine.

Society in peril,
Morality on the fringes,
The sound of a bullet leaving its barrel,
The sound of a casket lid closing at its hinges,
Oh, somewhere our better half cringes.

Everyone has one ounce mercy,
Three pounds sympathy,
Angelic grace,
Godly uniqueness,
Divine understanding,
And a two-ton war machine.

.
Teems in the whirling grasses,
Fire in the daisies, littlest suns
Becoming patchworks of stars
Above the hallowed loams of soil,
The black ants shine in the light,
Spiders construct their silk laces,
Line by line as the wind unweaves
In the crepes, even in round dew,
One can see the globe of waters,
Watching itself in minnows' eye,
The insects, fly, iridescent gods
Floating sparkles, burst, buzzing
Wings, the stems of green ferals
Flowers flagging them into grace,
With chalice, tasting cup in blood
Of the petals, to thirst and quench
Ambrosial nectar, freshness, new,
Sweet in the tendril vines embrace,
The songs of colours, lowly birds,
Even higher, sing, above, choirs
Of the knarled and ancient twig
Branches that flame into briars
With leaves of yellow, feathers
So fair, water cresses in pools
Of the meadow and the violets
And buttercups spun, painted
With splattered, arts, confetti
Whirl, world in meadow sun.

.
Teems in the whirling grasses,
Fire in the daisies, littlest suns
Becoming patchworks of stars
Above the hallowed loams of soil,
The black ants shine in the light,
Spiders construct their silk laces,
Line by line as the wind unweaves
In the crepes, even in round dew,
One can see the globe of waters,
Watching itself in minnows' eye,
The insects, fly, iridescent gods
Floating sparkles, burst, buzzing
Wings, the stems of green ferals
Flowers flagging them into grace,
With chalice, tasting cup in blood
Of the petals, to thirst and quench
Ambrosial nectar, freshness, new,
Sweet in the tendril vines embrace,
The songs of colours, lowly birds,
Even higher, sing, above, choirs
Of the knarled and ancient twig
Branches that flame into briars
With leaves of yellow, feathers
So fair, water cresses in pools
Of the meadow and the violets
And buttercups spun, painted
With splattered, arts, confetti
Whirl, world in meadow sun.

.
Teems in the whirling grasses,
Fire in the daisies, littlest suns
Becoming patchworks of stars
Above the hallowed loams of soil,
The black ants shine in the light,
Spiders construct their silk laces,
Line by line as the wind unweaves
In the crepes, even in round dew,
One can see the globe of waters,
Watching itself in minnows' eye,
The insects, fly, iridescent gods
Floating sparkles, burst, buzzing
Wings, the stems of green ferals
Flowers flagging them into grace,
With chalice, tasting cup in blood
Of the petals, to thirst and quench
Ambrosial nectar, freshness, new,
Sweet in the tendril vines embrace,
The songs of colours, lowly birds,
Even higher, sing, above, choirs
Of the gnarled and ancient twig
Branches that flame into briars
With leaves of yellow, feathers
So fair, water cresses in pools
Of the meadow and the violets
And buttercups spun, painted
With splattered, arts, confetti
Whirl, world in meadow sun.

Within our langue, we find us, aura of place.
This while life's trapped meanings, words,
paroled, evoked thus, gesture one
through one, and no other.

While without, betwixt words, languid lessons,
failing to be learned, detail broad-strokes
of reality's brush painting us, the canvas,
the world, framelessly framed.

Yet, languorless, from a bird's eye,
this insight, inner flight to soul's
fathomless essence, unweaves
self's tapestry, to begin anew,

a word, path of study, walked it's way.
A time redefined by what's sublime, communal
solutioning concentrating, sans frontieres.
Shimmering stream to babbling brook's nook.

As time unweaves,
  its mask deceives
  —to hide a bigger truth

The past and future
  threaded strands
  —to braid the hangman’s noose

(Villanova Pennsylvania: June, 2018)