The power went off
The street was dark and quiet
One single star shines.

held fast by consequences
the butterfly effect
made choices

free will
a way to go
to make a change

small can be beautiful
full of strength
a shared beginning

perhaps a subject already well covered. but I consult no one else,
who can expertly summon the artificial artifacts, no better yet,
art~i~facts of prior expert~tease, and speak only and wholly
for myself, blatant, and openly undisguised

it is the spilling, the upward sensory explosive detonating,
in a pressured chest, the eagerness
to race, to complete,
find the next line, to define, to refine to get the balance tween
elegance and simplicity, to have the ******* sensory totality
of completely having spun off a piece of me and let it free float as a balloon, that may fly to China or get stuck on a telephone pole
just beyond my front door
                                      =============
^ I write this midst the composition of another poem, wherein
unusually I feel the need to pause, collect my thoughts which are bombarding my atoms internal, causing  a new fissionable element,
distinct and unique, my poem…next…

"where love is the petal of a rose"

i wondered where death took life and
life took death. life threw itself into  
the daylight forgot the petticoats of the day
and her ambers burnt to the greys of the sun.  
i couldn't melt before her or she before me
but she ran and i loved to run with her.
death was life without the ghosts of sorrow
and life was death in its impenetrable dreams,
i was swallowed up by the arrival of summer and
i died at her feet, i died
and i lived, i fell and i stood up and life was a
thirst to survive and death was the blue ghost
and the oblivious rose. death was something
i would know tomorrow and life something i
could feel today, not sorry and not sad,
not empty or harnessed, free in its freedoms
open hearted, rain-scented. i opened my eyes
to the stars and fell at their feet,
i opened my eyes and the poetry flew
away like a sky-hungry bird.

above the autumn lake
two black eared kites dive

and climb
and call to each other

three loons launch
across the lake

the heron
powder blue

stands stone still
on the sandy shore

we are all wild music
we are all songs vanishing

"what was the Maltese Falcon?" the boy asks.

his father replies, "The stuff that dreams are made of."


the world is loud:
sirens,
headlines,
grief, love, fear,
heartbreak and flames.

life is a rat race
and the rats are winning

so throw confetti at the funeral.

we name our ghosts
and call them love.
we chase the falcon
of black painted lead,
light candles in an empty room
and call it faith.

where do we go from here?

walk against the parade
through costumes,
floats and marching bands?

the night runs through us all
while the world politely burns.

we call it sanity...this quiet compliance.

but clarity assumes rebellion.
take the straight line
through the storm.

throw confetti at our funeral.
(sadness wears confetti, well.)


every moment the soul screams
we tread closer to the razor's edge.

I'll stand here at the sink
And have my tea
and sip and think
and let the sun shine
on my hands
and cups and plates and pots and pans
and what a lovely place to be
and thankful that it's all for me

And let the wind come in the door
and through the window
to dry the floor
and when I've hung the clothes outside
I'll sit and wait to take a ride
To share the sunshine's gift to me
That I am happy
as happy can be

This little light of mine.
The one darkness cannot bind.
Guides me through the wilderness of shadow.

This little light of mine.
Oh, heavenly little shrine.
Little candle of inextinguishable flame.

This little light of mine.
The beacon to the skyline.
Call down my angel.

the night whispers the black water fall of ashes
that bloom into the sparrows of sorrow...


the sorrow sparrows are back again
sitting in the tangled woods of twisted trees.

Van Gogh heard their voices
bouncing off love's walls.

the sorrow sparrows are leaning into me.
my sad eyes, dream of you brother.

I lean into the soft lit room
searching for love's quiet hours,
with sunlight flickering through willow trees.

"don't cry, darlin," my wife whispers.

Changing gear,
     my mind is on cruise,
becoming clear,
     as I start to muse,
about love and lust, *** and sinning,
     I'm starting to grin
          and I'm settling in
for a show that is just beginning.

Changing gear,
     her dress on the floor,
becoming clear,
     her skin shows more,
of lust and love, sinning and ***,
     She starts to smile,
          and looking a while
at the poet who is lustfully hexed.