baby blue stroller
fire engine red wagon
chrome oxide green bike
yellow convertible
azurite blue van
sorrel colored wheelchair

bronze casket

Those who search after truth will be cursed with a loss of station
Those who would love will be cursed with reality
Those who would be humble or courteous will be cursed with pride
Those who would be reverent have a curse in the past
Those who would be self-denying will be cursed three times by others
Those who would praise God will be cursed with fear
Cleanliness is a curse in itself

Those that fear will be blessed in their ignorance
Those that hate will be blessed in their compassion
Those that lie will be blessed in their humanity
Those that envy will be blessed in their possessions

Curtains, blown by an evening's gale,
Applaud movements of the Coryphee,
That sentry for everything frail
And the things of beauty put away.

She dances to melodic chimes,
Which haunt the summer evening's air,
She leaps, turns, points, and spins in time,
Unmindful of her sentinel care.

She ignores forgotten keys, rings,
Bracelets, pins, a small glass hummingbird,
As well a wads of necklace strings,
She keeps on dancing, without a word.

Still ballerina dances,
Doing pirouettes to some refrain,
Ignoring her audiences,
Never seeking any other gain.

Yet, with time, every life must fade.
When this life, by key, has come to end,
She answers her death unafraid.
The chest is closed by a gust of wind.

My red wagon, in my youth,
Kept things some thought quite uncouth,
Like fishing line, crawdad bait,
A model boat, old door plate,
Copper rupees from Nepal,
Ancient skull, an old softball,
And I still wish I had them all,
Those fine treasures of my youth.

Though years have past since that day,
I, again, still lug that dray,
But I often can recall,
All the stuff I used to haul.
Though no longer filled with junk;
I don't use it like a trunk.
This lesson I didn't flunk.
It's filled with my kids at play.

i'm going out with the guys.
i'll see you in a few days.
got some dinners in the fridge.
don't forget to feed the pets.
and, the plants need watering.
i love you, dear.  don't wait up

October maples
Disrobe and strut **** bodies -
Come March, maples blush.

Farewell!  Farewell!
The rest can go to hell.
And perhaps I should be chided
For being so small-mindedly pegged,
If it were left to me,
I would not care to see
Another Easter Egg.

a mole, odd-
shaped nose, bent
ears, dimples,
thick eyebrows,
with large eyes
much too close

i love your
unflawlessness

sirens' songs lured
thousands to their
doom,
but i want to
meet the guy who
******
them
off.

In the bleakest part of winter.
When earth is covered with snow,
A sentry of masculine gender
Stands without a sign of woe.

How is it snow men always smile?
The scenery isn't great.
Though they most often dress with style,
They are always overweight.

Magic silk hats hide their bald heads.
Their carrot noses aren't cute.
Beady eyes seem pixilated.
They don't even own a suit.

So, why do these guards always smile?
What can they all smile about?
To contrast, scarecrows are most vile,
With a look that's all worn out.

Scarecrows got the cerebral part,
But it wasn't an even trade.
For what snowmen got was a heart,
In the love with which they're made.

I'm just one of the thousands
Of monkeys, who sit
At their keyboards,
Typing away,
   Typing away,
      Typing away,
Foregoing food, water,
   ***, and even love
      Typing away
         Typing away
Not to create some masterpiece
   Which will immortalize me
      Typing away
         Well, maybe that
But, it is my hope that in
   This typing away
      I could capture
         The most elusive of prizes:
             Truth

Feelings, warm, a summer breeze,
When you look at me.
Never thought I'd feel again,
Except for some cold despair.  
Til you came into my life  
And showed me that you care.

Feelings, cold, a winter blast,
Frightened, like the past.
It's knowing you're not near.
Certainly, I must confide.
I need touch, your summer waft,
To warm me  deep inside.

My old trunk is filled with
Baby shoes,
   But no one knows to whom they belong,
Faded pictures,
Christmas ornaments,
Spectacles,
Watches that no longer work
Tarnished silver,
A tennis racket,
My mother's false teeth,
Embroidered napkins, I was saving for company,
And memories.

I clothe this trunk
   With vestments of spider webs
And warm it with white sheets,
   As one would cover furniture
      of one departed.
And eventually,
   The trunk is once again
      Forgotten.

Life is a carnival,
   Filled with amusement rides and comfort food.
      But, no matter how much fun I have today,
         There will only be an empty parking lot tomorrow.

That trunk is my lifeline to remember
   There was a carnival.

Prometheus, the joker, he
offered Zeus a choice of tributes:
An egg, a chocolate covered
With foil, the delicious covered
With the inedible or
Chicken wings; perhaps they were ribs,
The unpalatable concealed
Within the gratifying and
Delectable.

And, when given the same choice, I
Choose the charming, the beguiling,
The delightful exterior,
With unappealing core, rather
Than attempt to find that nugget,
Hidden within its thin veneer
And certainly worth the effort.
I find lusciousness is much more
Pleasurable.

60 seconds of heaven
60 minutes she loved me
60 hours on the run
60 days in the courtroom
60 years to life in pen
but it was almost worth it

I remember when my mother
Would get angry with me
And I would escape to a tall pecan tree.

I always imagined my mother screaming,
"Where is my dear boy?
He has left and I never got a chance to tell
Him how much I love him."

My mother never did.

So, I stayed up there, watching man-next-door
Mow the lawn or the postman make his rounds.

And eventually,
   I would sink into the strong, loving arms of that tree.
The tree never told me I was bad.
   It never made demands on me.
      It was always nurturing and caring -
         Ever gently rocking.

When I think of the greatest gift
   My child has given me
      It's the moments that she crawls into my lap
         And rests her head against me.

I've become a tree.

Ah, passion -
   That stay awake,
      Go-without-eating mania.
   What other feeling can
Make a person feel so alive?

Then, there is longing -
   That helpless sense of incompleteness.

Give me comfortable love -
   That gentle expression of companionship.
      Give me safe love,
         Free of juvenile fears and
   Exaggerated
Expectations.

But...
   Give me contentment
      Some other moment.

i am a leaf,
   caught in passion's wind.
      i can only feel myself
         being tossed into the air,
      cast from current to current,
   from elation to remorse,
      jealousy to disappointment,
        concern to misgivings,
     anxiety to grief to ardor.

                         i'm lifted into the air
                            and then
banged to the ground.

   she is dangerous.

      she moves too easily into my being.

i am a leaf.

   i have no will.

I'm an active volcano.
Sometimes, I slowly expel
My ash and steam; then again
I erupt to litter all
With my fiery core from hell.

Sometimes I poison the air.
Other times, I castigate
Those, who would subvert my goals.
I demand sacrifices
Of innocent and guiltless.

Bring me virgins, more virgins.


Maiden's Answer:

Dearest sovereign of this mountain land,
Your humble servant, accepts your hand.
To save ken, friends, and our countrywide,
I gladly consent to be your bride
For, in a sense, I'd become your wife.

I'm vestal, as the day I was born,
My integrity is not wayworn,
My righteousness is a source of pride,
But I shall promise to be your bride,
If you may grant my one small request.

Your strength, your wisdom, are beyond compare.
You have spent an eternity there.
So, I must ask a simple query,
Before I promise us to marry.
Might you be overcompensating?

I know Lonely Street.
I’ve walked its beaches,
Stared mindlessly at
Friend television.
I’ve filled afternoons
With sips of coffee.

I know all of the
Hiding places there:
Bars with cement floors,
Noisy ceiling fans;
City libraries;
Movie theaters.

There is no color
Here on Lonely Street -
Only replicas
Of houses ashen.
There is no music -
Reiteration.

I know its benches,
Where I tease pigeons
With my popcorn and
Chitter at tree rats,
Watching worlds go by,
Waiting for passage.

I know this safe place,
This sanctuary,
This holy sector,
This respite from feeling,
Where any feeling
Feels likes it's torture.

So, I hide or seek
Anonymity.

“What is the most intimate thing
you've ever done?”  she asked,  as she
produced a small kit and withdrew
a syringe, holding it between
her long fingernails.  She turned
up the volume of the music
to intensify the moment.

“You think *** is intimacy?”
“*** is a body function!  I'm
talking about sharing myself
and becoming a part of you,
with the very essence of me
racing through your veins.  Are you scared?”
Metallica screamed in background.

What is the most intimate thing
I've ever done, I asked myself.
If it isn't ***, what is it?
Give flowers, candy, jewelry,
pen a song, write romantic verse?
Achelous's daughter enticed.

'Course I was thinking like a male.
A woman would think of sharing,
beautiful sunsets, long cruises,
romantic dinners, holding hands...
She prepared my entertainment,
like a sacral ritual, and
I imagined Japanese flutes.

Sharing isn't intimacy.
I could've shared by dropping my trou,
but it was doubtful, it would been
appreciated, but no less
than her sharing was to me then.
"It's making someone feel special."
Having said that I slammed the door.

The fox is not an evil kind.
She's just mostly misunderstood.
She's not a dangerous canine
And at times she can be quite good.

You've heard she raids the chicken coop.
That's certainly baneful indeed,
But that's so much water soup,
'Cause feathers make her sneeze!

You've heard that she's conniving,
But she tells me it's not true,
She is just a fun-loving thing,
Who has a heart that is true blue.

She loves the wind's feel on her face.
She's really a country girl.
Her favorite pastime is chase,
Though she's quite elegant in pearls.

But she also likes to snuggle.
That's one subject we both agree.
I'm glad she chose me to nuzzle,
When you're a hound dog, such as me.

ok, so you're not a fake person
you're a deceptive, fraudulent,
cheating charlatan

you're a player, a phoney,
a counterfeiter,
a feigner, a pretender, a he-vamp,
telling me what i want to hear

you're tinsel and
i took that gleam in your
eye for something else

so, you're a real person
but that doesn't mean
you're not plastic

A voice travels
   On summer's stillness,
      Clamoring
         Against injustice
            Echoing
               Across the valley,
         But every
      One is so guilty
   Of something,
So, no one listens.

He is joined
   In his bemoanings,
      By lone wolf
    Atop a nearby ridge,
But no one listens.

my mason jar heart,
chipped, cracked, stained with wine,
has often been filled
with tears for those gone,
romantic picnics,
porch evenings on
swings or rocking chairs,
too many secrets,
but great memories.

She says complex, confusing, tough, involved, and hard to understand.
I say messed up.  Wrong thing to say.
She says arduous, intricate, perplexing, abstruse, and difficult.
I say fouled up. 
She begins again, but I interrupt and insist we get some sleep.  
I then watch her set the timer, so she can brush her teeth,
   for exactly two minutes.

A princess eats not the crust of bread,
Rarely ever makes her bed,
Knows not the meaning of "old woodshed",
And there lies the problem

lies: sweet
nothings, soft
soap, grease,
blarney,
bunkum,
wheedling,
praise,
beautiful
storytelling
pleas­e
tell me what
i want to hear

bruised moon overhangs
to remind me that the world
can be violent

What love you about summer camp?
I can bet it was not canned food,
Nor being the archery champ,
Nor the crafts, which were often glued.

Though pancakes always made you smile
And swimming would have many laughs,
It wasn't like home, by a mile,
Nor were there always happy staff.

Perhaps you enjoyed riding horse;
There were climbing ropes and hiking.
You made at least one friend, of course,
But the fish were never biting.

So, what about camp did you love?
Certainly, it didn't feel like home!
But it was indicative of
That, at least, you were on your own!

When I was a kid,
My favorite place in the world
Was a park bench.

I used to sit at the end of the bench,
   Dangling my feet,
      Pretending to drive mother-with-child and
         Man-with-newspaper to their appointed destinations.

There, my friends and I spent hours
Playing forts,
   And robber-in-jail,
      And church.

And, though my friends never complained,
I'm sure they never appreciated that wonder
Spot, as much as I did.

Often, I would do my homework on a park bench.
At other times, I would lay down and
Look up through the trees
Talking with Johnny Mac about life and girls.

So, it shouldn't surprise you that I asked my sweetheart
To marry me on a park bench,
Like the one I grew up with,
Or that I should go THERE, when my wife died.

Today, I tease pigeons with popcorn
And swap stories heard a hundred times before.

I'm happy.

I'm glad to have had such memories.
And I'm glad to have had the feeling
Of a park bench.

After some sunsets
Even the coldest winter
Often makes me smile.

It's always been such:
Yin is a part of the the yang;
Yang's part of the yin.

When horrific death
Rises, so does the laughter,
For spring remembers.

i walked into the tiki room
of some resort hotel
to find a guy most gloom
who'd been caught by some woman's spell

when i said that "she's not worth it",
i got the strangest look
but when i asked this misfit,
if it felt like love
the fella' knew that he'd been rooked

while all feelings are indeed real,
a product of our brain,
whether star-crossed love, raw deal,
perhaps poor timing,
or doing something one might deign.

but, if some day, you do find me
in the tiki room of
some hotel, please guarantee
that you will be kind,
when i cry about my lost love

When the zombies soon awaken,
If I'm not quite mistaken,
They'll seem like they're kinda ******.
Now, Snow White, for example,
In a story most dreadful,
She just needed to be kissed.

And Rip Van Winkle also
Was a long sleeping fellow,
Lost twenty years and felt gypped.
Instead of all that blasting
And small-minded type casting,
Pucker those ruby red lips.

chasing white rabbits and
   knights in shiny
white armor
white dress
white nights
white hair
white houses with
white picket fences
white oaks
white roses and a
white dog beware
of
white lead
white flames
white wash and
white lies

Moisture of branches chyles and weeps
                                      chyles and weeps
                                      chyles and weeps
Shedding tears into the stream
Pilgrimming towards Sybaris
Wending
Streaming
Migrating as a breath in the cold
Sweeping
Prowling
Writhing
Gilding the shallowness
Snaking
Writing
Straying the depths
Echoing
Metering
Foraging among the starched garments of winter
Corybanting
Jauting
Evoluting
Storming
Lapping

A rock is kissed
Sending sanctity to the heavens

Emerging, seeking
Emerging, gentle
Emerging, aggressive
Emerging, thrusting
Emerging, violent
Emerging, fulfilled
Emerging, satisfied
Emerging

what gives your life real meaning?
at the top, i bet it is friends.
what else could give life such gleanings?
neither health nor fancy playpens?
but, while husbands name their wives
as their "bestie", why do wives name
other women as friends?

In that fleeting moment of meeting,
I ask myself if I could ever love you.

Certainly, I want eternity,
   But I could be content,
      If, in that fleeting moment,

I could brush souls with you.

because you are an adventurer,
because you are a romantic,
because you are practical,
because you play to win,
because you are open, frank, and honest,
because you are sincere,
because you are incapable of meanness,
because you are a good friend,
because you might share your fudgey brownies with me,
because romance is for the young or foolish and i am very foolish,
because your kindness touches my soul,

i hope

a single leaf
attached by a thread
flutters with the wind

why does it not let go
and join its brothers and sisters
to blanket the ground

does it believe it will
recapture its vital force
with the return of spring

or does the tree hold on

a butterfly flirts with me

she stands before me
but turns when i look

then

she fans herself
like a spanish dancer
teases her audience

i wonder if she knows
how captivated i am
by her alluring ways

or

how i'd do anything
to hold on to this
moment

i can only pray
please stay

I want to rip off your packaging.  

I want to feast on you,
   gobble you up,
      pig out on you,
   and wolf you down.

I want your nourishment.  
   I want your refreshment.  
      Give me sustenance.  

I want to nibble on your appetizers
   and sip your wine.
      I want your snack.  
   I want to close my fingers around
      your strawberries and partake of you.  
I want to rummage your confections and
   lay waste to your delicatessen.  

This is not the time for delicate bites.
   This is not the time to diet.  
      I want handfuls of you.  
   I want to play with my food
      and lick the bowl
         for dessert.

my yet un-born baby daughter
dances **** in mother's waters
a wild child, she, who loves to play
while i must hold the world at bay

land lines, phonographs, telex, and hatracks
cassettes, telegraph, tape drives and 8 tracks,
pagers, zip drives, typewriters and ****,
floppy discs, slide projectors, and mainframes,

boom boxes, slide rulers, pagers and portable tv,
laser disks, cartridges, matrix printers and CRT
pdas, walkman, fax machines and reel-to-reel
and you now tell me, my love, your love is real

My warrior poet
Laughs at your
Warrior priestess
And then runs for cover

How sad it is to kiss and part.
The morning fog must know this.
It comes in the stillness of the night.
It settles, caressing its beloved,
And leaving with the break of day.

I am a pie
Laid open by love's knife
Because I've been there often enough to know,
Without even considering,
It's worth the price

a secret is a wild
   climbing vine,
      which consumes
         slender cracks
      and early mornings
   with scandent possibilities:
      first of familiarity,
   then affection,
then intimacy.

a secret needs
   very little
      to support it
   neither water
      nor food
and only
   a modicum of  truth.

i want to be the one
in whom you confide.

have another glass of wine
and spill your secrets.