it’s mine.
swaddled in a down embrace
my Outlook
changes
the air, muggy
carries the high-pitched
alerts
of chorus frogs
i need not respond.
a solitary fingertip
illuminated
s
c
r
o
l
l
i
n
g
blue burned eyes
resisting
sabotaging
The Day

The ticking of an antique clock,
The smell of unwashed dishes,
A sinewy hand curled around the heart
Small slits of sunlight Peaked through the blind’s half shut eyelids.
Burrowed in the shadows,
She sunk into the old armchair.
Ink scrawled papers littered the room,
Resting gloomily on the coffee stained carpet and dust flecked tables.
The words would not come.
Her notepad ---- a casket for the desiccated shells
Of words that carried no life.

sacred silence hangs on angel wings
blessing, watching over wakened night
fluttering on the screen, drawn to the light of
consciousness, the truth of darkened mornings.
strong, alone, remotely flipping through the
channels of the restless bar-room soul
charles bukowski, angry, drunk and droll;
pavement wisdom yanked inside, renewed and
resurrected.  rolling stone lays open,
having sprung the latent-night messiahs
preaching to insomniacal choir.
cryptic muse's recipe for coping:
be consumed, entombed, re-wombed by
worshiping and feeding written fire.

She woke, shivering in the dark of night
Wary of the long shadows on the wall
Flicking on the pink hued tulip nightlight
To forget the monster with one eyeball
The giant teddy bear with sharpened claws
The troll that sneered and chased her down the street
The King Kong turtle with quick snapping jaws
The freckled boy who ate her ice-cream treat
She runs down the cold hall to Mommy’s room
She turns the **** and tiptoes to her bed
“I had a nightmare,” the little girl croons.
“Shhh, it was only a dream,” Mommy said
She tucks her in and rocks her back to sleep
Years later she wakes alone, cold and naked
Her dreams a waking truth; the woman weeps
Resenting all the precious years wasted
From room to room she walks the barren halls
There is no one. Only an empty house
With silent photos hanging on the walls

Come, take my hand
Follow me into the forest
The fallen leaves, drenched with rain, will guide our path
Through the shaded glade and up the moss covered hill
Don’t be afraid to step in the mud
Listen, hear the crisp snap of twigs echo in the distance
The soft lull of trickling water, flowing in the creek
Watch, catch a glimpse of the timid deer
Hiding in the thicket and the little squirrel
Lilting across the treetops, acorns in cheek
Touch, stroke the rough bark beneath your fingertips
Caress the summer leaves, immerse your hands
In the tranquility of soothing waters
Feel, accept the dawn’s gentle kisses upon your face
The pure spirits that inhabit the trees
Feel nature pulsing through your body with renewed vitality
Breathe deeply;
Infuse your lungs with the richness of life
And speak:

Tell me, Mr. Arborist,
Do you still wish to destroy the forest?