In a bowered place that only
Pixies know about
Tucked down between
The weeping willow’s boughs,
And not far from a singing rivulet
There lives a butterfly with gorgeous wings,
Transparent in the morning sun  
And luminous at twilight.
Her wings are patterned in chartreuse
With royal purple fantasies
That end in trailing gossamer.
Feeding on the buttercups and clover,
Her afternoons are bathed in a tranquility
That obviates the need to fly.
And so the gentle butterfly does not,
But rests and ponders what is on the breeze
That transforms air to symphonies
And blends with everything nearby
To make a perfect potpourri
Of serenity and peace.
ljm

I knocked on numerous doors before
But never was let inside
Until I found you.
Now I discover pathways open
That were invisible to me before,
And thank you.

I turned away from so many things
That couldn’t be understood
Before I knew you.
Now suddenly a pattern forms
And life begins to make sense when
Shared with you.

I gave my memories away
To people who couldn’t use them
Previous to you.
Now each episode becomes a part
Of the growing treasure that is my
Life with you.

I was hungry and cold and sad and tired
Before you saved me.
Now I’m filled with warmth and joy and strength -
All the gifts you gave me.
Ls

All that I am I give to you this day,
That you may share in all that I ever shall be.
                                      Ls

Like my life, all my kitchen crockery
is used, worn and chipped,
Maybe I could buy replacements,
but sadly, they do not make them
like that anymore. Or me either.

Aging, and time leave some wear
and tear behind and are unavoidable.

My first impressions were mind expanding,
filled with crushing throngs of busy people
all moving, their clamor and noise unrelenting.
The enduring, evocative scents and smells of
a culture thousands of years old and thriving.

The wide mud brown life's blood Ganges
River flowing through the heart of the city,
filled with wooden crafts of all descriptions,
people on the banks bathing, washing clothes,
living, open funeral pyres burning, life and
death laid bare for all eyes to see as it has been
since Time Immemorial.

On the street's flowers and music in abundance,
women in colorful, to drab Sari dresses denoting
their stature, along with some men in western attire
but most in sarongs and open toed sandals. While
walking the streets every few blocks the at first
shocking sight of impoverished recently deceased
bodies laid out on the sidewalks upon straw mats,
swaddled in cloth wrappings awaiting donation
offerings enough to pay for their funeral fires.

Unaccustomed to seeing Westerners the people pause
and stare as if we were from outer space visitors, if we
stopped moving, unthreateningly and wide eyed they
would surround us, perhaps unsure what they are seeing.

A mutually curious encounter, Humanity visited up
close and personal. Aw yes, I fondly remember India.

through distant isles i searched for him
my only love, my one true knight,
and i a spirit, silver-haired,
a ghost of night.

oh, he was battle scarred and worn
from long crusades in foreign lands
and through parched deserts still i roam
the wind-blown sands.

i'll not forget him, never rest,
until i've whispered in his ear
undying love through moon-blanched lips
and held him near.

oh, hear me crying like the wind
through every forest, every sea,
i walk the earth, a phantom shade,
unceasingly.

and snow is cold but not as chill
as the iced ****-frost of my breath
the taste of winter in my kiss,
a wraith of death!

i'll wrap him in my gauzy limbs,
ignite the fire in his vein,
encircle him in clouds of mist
and free my chain.

through distant isles i searched for him
my only love, my one true knight,
and i a spirit, silver-haired,
a ghost of night.