The blue of his eyes swims and mingles in a deep sea of love.
A love that knows no bounds inside my red velvet heart.

How poignant it is to be punctuated with such drama and passion.
A full round moon smiles down watching lovers do what lovers do.

It is made to blush.

Moon, intermingle all shadows and light,
Your underbelly glows, bathed in warmth
Your earth is washed in glow even in the night

With an unobstructed horizon, I see you peeking
Until the bright yellow sun comes creeping
And all past is the unquiet sky of storm

A self-published poet
is not the same
as a published poet.

A self-published poet says
"I'm pretty good!  
I'll put this into the world."

A published poet
has someone else say,
"You are outstanding.

I want to publish you."
Otherwise, you should say
I am a self-published poet.

One is not equal to the other.

There is something that fascinates
Me about your language.

Hairs bristle on the back of my neck,
My ears tingle when the words

Touch them and I burn for wanting
More of those lines.  Leaving me

Wanting so much more than words.

They begin to sing before the light of day
When night has just begun to fade away
And it is a new day.

With dawn's light they take to wing
And begin the day with many things,
Morning song, bugs and seeds.

Mortal beings like caulk
Flaking with time and use;
Like artists blowing away dust,
Dusting away brief accumulations -
These moral beings. Transactional movements.

Mother comes to where she is most needed
Her gibbering womb speaks healing words
She tells of times when she was barren
She recalls the times when she gave birth
She speaks of pain in the blood of children
Written in red on black hearts of evil men
She gathers children birthed by others to her
Covers them with the volume of her skirt
Though she had not born them she nurtures
Calls them hers and continue to give them life
Her womb speaks of each one as equaled in love
She is eternally Mother and the world is her child

Mother comes to where she is most needed
Her gibbering womb speaks healing words
She tells of times when she was barren
She recalls the times when she gave birth
She speaks of pain in the blood of children
Written in red on black hearts of evil men
She gathers children birthed by others to her
Covers them with the volume of her skirt
Though she had not born them she nurtures
Calls them hers and continue to give them life
She cries "Sisters, I will grow them in your behalf"
Her womb speaks of each one as equaled in love
She is eternally Mother and the world is her child

Moths like stars flicker
In the night sky;
Flickering and flittering
As they pass by.

How my heart soars,
At them, with them,
In the magic moments
That they fly.

Mountain crocus'
Reach purple arms
Towards the sky
Spring twinkles
In their yellow eyes

Hair in braids hanging down,
The Sun in rays shining all around,
Glimmers and shimmers on skin so fair
And glows upon my long dark hair.
Bare feet tread on soil rich and brown
Pattering along as they touch the ground.
The softest air in rhythm is growing
With scents of ocean breezes flowing
To a blue haze above the lofty mountains.
This is where my heart will be soaring
'Or mounts, oceans, 'n watery fountains.

We pranced about when
The world was that of men.
As ones who cannot behave,
As ones unbridled on keyboards.

We were meandering in music.
She said, "Follow my notes
As I now place them  
In the piano's throat."

We pranced within the notes.
The world was not for girls
But I could not behave as such,
A master of the musical work.

They hid my female touch,
That soft and light touch when
Only men could embrace the pen.
Yet, we feel your import, now.

He had said, "You put it down as me.
Until my heyday is all but gone,
As they desire to identify mine
Yours they will begin to find."

There are no lizard people who walk our streets
Living in the country, living in the cities, or suburbia.
There are only lizard brains.

People in this country are not eating cats and dogs
Not in the country, not in the cities, not in suburbia.
There are only those with cannibalized brains.

Ask yourself: Who has the brain worm?
Who is in mental decline?
Who among us really is Mr. & Mrs. Kook-Among-Us?

Time traveling is possible, a river said.

Traces of lives left behind in multitudes,
Bones and jewels beneath the mud,
Bent and buried blades, buttons, cufflinks,
Pipes, and dress pins upon dress pins.

The backdrop of so much history
As the Thames flows on through the
Land and hearts of Londoners.
A witness to thousands of years.

Each tide reveals historic artifacts
On the changing foreshore.
An unwritten record of discovery.
It is the city's longest archeological site.

Modern mudlarks find the clues to its use
Across the city, across the ages of time,
As a transport artery, a connection to the gods,
A source of sustenance, or a place for dumping.

Mudlarks of the mid-19th century were
“Compelled from utter destitution to seek
For the means of appeasing their hunger
In the mud of the river.”

Today mudlarking is a hobby, relaxing, fun,
But generations of the young to the old sought
Lumps of coal, rope, bones, iron, or copper
– anything that could be sold.

Time, the river, and its people are survivors.

I love this poem, but it is going to break my heart.  For

I wanted life for my Love.  There were such beautiful things about him.
Yet, the demons in him sought his death in ways so cruel.

He was Man who loved family, friends, and thrilled to living life within
Brief moments; when the ugly moments waned or his demons tired out.

The distruction, which we have made will drive us to our own, I've seen.
If I were a brain surgeon I would have gone in and exspunged the parts

That slowly ate at your heart, my Love, my always Love.

My little homeless man is gone.
He either found himself a home
Or else they've moved him on.

I look at the spot where he was once.
That place he sat and slept at for months
Since we've have had a couple cool front.

He is missed since he has gone; home; moved on.

You rise high, my Queen
To kiss the day
Wearing a rosy blush today

The night was long
Now the King has gone
Away, away

Light my day with your beauty

I see your sunlight
Through clouds
Before I see a sun

I smell your rain
Before I see it
Falling on flowers

I see the greening
Of leaves and grass
As you bloom, and

I wonder, what else
Do you hold out
In wonder for me

A little ditty

From sun-up to sunset
I love you the very best!
You're more special than the rest
Because you love me, too

Based on a poem written in the mid-1990s, more than 30 years ago
I see myself, poor old soul;
Pages upon handwritten pages
Within dusty tattered notebooks;
I caress each word, each syllable,

“This one was for him and this one.
And this one, what passion then!
The pages burnt in his hand.  
Remember?  He often said so.

My thoughts then turn to the disks.
I knew back then, as I carefully
Saved each cherished line of
Our fluid dialog, I knew back then

The day would come when ‘they’
Would be relics from the past
Refusing any longer to give up
Their treasure.

This age-spotted wrinkled hand
Now resorts to albums in which
The printed pages were bound
So many years ago for this reason.

Any flames that once set aflame
The page has long been doused
By the wells of time, time whose
Spring is but a trickle now.

O, sweet honey-dewed words drip
From these pages, sticky, still sweet.
Drip on me for I desire to feel!
All need to be revived!

For we are now all old with time.
The pages yellowed, you dead,
The tech I used to save the writing,
Gone, no longer any use.

Yet, embers deep inside
Glow warm still for you
Within this withered womb.
And it can never be quenched.

I speak this to nothing but air.

You were not Captain America.
You were not Captain Hero.
You were my downfall. 
You were Captain Undertow.

If one cannot heal one's own heart 
How can one heal the heart of another?
But power does not dwell in a vacuum.

I thought it was my duty to heal you. 
I tried so hard; my mission taken seriously!
It took me many long pain-filled years
To see that you did not want to be saved. 

We could not heal our own hearts, could we?
How could we heal the hearts of one another?
The power vacuum continued to dwell in us, lovers.

And yet, we needed each other.

Ephemeral like water on the moon
Or a whisper into an ear,

This man, lying like the bend of a tree
Elbows bent ready to cradle me.

I could reach out, touch and feel him, then.
Now he is an air current swirling round me.

He comes to visit; I never know when.
He enters and takes me by the hand.
He leads me where I may not know
But I do not fight it as onwards we go.
Sometimes we travel fast, sometimes slow.
At times it is amazing, other times so-so.
My man, Muse is my dearest friend.

for Kathrine
She loved every season, getting all that each had to offer.
Sunbonnet on her head, she would venture out into the hot summer garden;

Waiting for the change that would allow pumpkin, turnips,
and greens to be grown in the fall

When the sun would soften and the turning trees begin to feel the coolness.

Then, into the mellowed golden rows she would venture
hoping to gather what summer may have left behind.

Later, in the sharp chill of winter, she would stand in the fallow field
planning out each row and path to spring planting;

Dreaming of abundance.

Hair in braids hanging down,
The Sun in rays shining all around.
Glimmers and shimmers on skin so fair
That glows upon long dark hair.
Bare feet tread on soil rich and brown
Pattering as they touch the ground.
The softest air in rhythm is growing
And scents of ocean breezes flowing
To a blue haze above the mountains.
This is where my heart is soaring
'Or mounts, oceans, 'n watery fountains.

I remember when you donned
-your polka-dot dress
And danced the flamenco

Such pretty and delicate hands
-the men who play guitar
Who played flamenco

You are suddenly young again
-the older boys gather
And you dance flamenco

Help me to first see the blessing in all things.
Help me to show appreciation for even the smallest thing.
Help me to know the satisfying feeling of sincere gratitude.
Help me to rise above adversity and show true grace.
Help me to know the happiness of hidden good works.
Help me to know the bliss of helping when no other human is watching.
Help me to know the joy of giving in ways that no one else may see.
Help me to win over the dejected, the downtrodden with only a smile.
Help me to lift-up others, especially the depressed & the lonely.
Help me to smooth, sooth, and comfort the frazzled ends in others' lives.
Help to listen quietly more often even when I've heard it before.
Help me to find lost souls seeking to be found as they are ready to be.
Help me to be truly kind to each human and to all other creatures.
Help me to show that even the most lowly among us has value.
Help me to see beauty where others are repulsed by appearances.
Help me to always appreciate that there is amazing beauty in human diversity.
Help me to acknowledge and see the value of the cultures of this world.
Help me to not fear touching others, whether the heart or the hand.
Help me to do these things regardless of reward or acknowledgement.
-Sherlene

My Sun,
You were my perihelion
But I got badly burned.
In the rarified air I fell.
My crash to earth, dramatic.
In time scars thickened,  
Desires weakened.  Yet,
The damage was done.

If I had a bicycle with a tiny wagon,
I'd give it to the homeless man.

The one that sleeps under the overpass
Then moves to a spot at a building near me.

He could use it to haul his bag and lawn chair
To that place where he spends the day sleeping

In the open air on a cement ledge of that building;
And does his ***** business in the corner where 2 meet.

Life with them is as though
We are playing the Hokey Pokey.

You put your whole self in
But they stop playing after an arm,
A leg, or simply, perhaps, a pinky.

They think they are the gateway
To all happiness.  They deeply believe this!
Without their presence there can be nothing.

It's like waiting for Santa Clause to arrive
In the parade or at the party.

Until they grace us with their appearance
Nothing can begin.

Empathic failure does not exist in them.
They are an unfinished puzzle and one
That can never finish,

Although they feel perfect while still in box.
Life with them is like some crazy dance
Which they lead but we will never learn.

Isn't ironic how some become enraged at you
When you stop drinking their poison, begin to choose?

You purge and wipe your lips, then walk away,
Escaping the drama of the day-after-day-after-day.

And that is when the thought of your escape
Suddenly chokes in their throat.

Then the tricks and threats start piling high.
You have taken their drug, cutoff their supply,

Now they must find another dealer.

Just sit and bathe in wonder.
And as you breathe,
I mean really breathe
Let wonder bathe over you
Washing your dusty soul,
Cleansing the murkiness
From your eyes, then just smile.
That will be gift enough.

Knowing it is just a patience game
We sit, we play the game, we wait;
The honking geese, a gaggle,
Beneath a crest of the moon.
Frost and snow and the geese,
A distant fox is patient, too.

We,
The nest.
I, the twigs,
You the branch.
Our eggs safe
Nestled within.
Until the day
Our fledglings fly.
With open hands
We cheer them
upward.

When in life you reach dead ends
Listen carefully to me, friend,

Stop to enjoy the view
Because in life we have too few.

But, here's the message that I send,
Simply turn around and start again.

The journey need not end.
To start again, turn around my friend.

Accepting the moment in which we find ourselves
Allow reason and meaning to regather as we turn away
From the unacceptable things we find we are sinking in
Reconnecting to the truthful, to the beautiful.
Aspects of goodness you saw once in others.  
Aspects you know are deeply embedded within you.

Reconnect to the good in others we know is there
To find some heart recover yours in the shining glow
Of love, of goodness, of that which you've known
Tarnish must be polished away from other heart
Cleanse own's own heart if we are to be of any use
Have the courage to live another day.  

Enjoy what you can as you can.
The healing will come from those regions
Which the core foundation remains and can never erode.
How did you learn to love?  Who initially gave you hope?
You did when you decided to love, to be loved, to reach higher.
Trust that a higher power unseen will guide and will lead.

Follow the breadcrumbs that you know were laid for you.

The voice of nightfall
Calls.
I listen in the dimming light.

All is softened by it.
Eyes strain.
Change is never easy.

The beauty engulfs me
As I adapt
To a new realization

With each new night.
I open
To its wonder.

Flowers whisper your name,
A breath that hangs around my face.
I want to press my nose against you,
Inhale you deep, exhale your gold dust
To color a moonlit way with the essence.
Love has placed stepping stones, which we follow,
A path, leading into the bower of our night garden.

At the water's edge
A crow keeps watch
For what I do not know,

Yet it calls out
Every now and then
As if to give a warning.

The light tides
Rising and falling
As though breathing.

I hear, feel, the waves plight
As they struggle to move,
To gain any kind of momentum,

A sound like gasping.
Then with sudden stillness
All is quiet except for gentle lapping.

5-3-5
Watching it go in
Basketball
Arc of perfection

7-5-7 Haiku
My favorite team plays off
Enter the finals
Being champions of the West

7-5-7
Watching the ball reaching home
The basketball is flying
It is an arc of perfection

I am really getting tired of marketers and others who are phishing Hello Poetry.  Let this serve as a warning, I will not answer your messages.  So, don't waste your time.

People the world over are naturally benevolent.
Yet, we are all, at times, foolish beings.

To be damaged is part of the human condition.

One is rarely ruined beyond redemption.
One is only soiled.  No wings required.

This room
red-velvety light
shine through
like a womb
I hold on tight
    to you

At times I'm consumed by oceans of words
And the many grains of the sands of notions.
All of which I desperately want to set in motion.

Other times, I might go to the water and it be dry.
But perish that I should sit and wonder why.
I dig like h-e-double-l letting dirt and sand fly!

Because you see, exploration makes one wise.
So, I'm not worried.   After all, hey,
Hakuna matata ends with a TA,

To be announced. . .

There are always haters
With solid deep seated hate
Willing to step up to use their hate

Inside, without true origin, it resides
It is a hate for the sake of hate

Make no mistake it is on both sides
It is that type of hate that now drives
And haters desire to get on the ride

I would eat my own arm
To sustain my life
In order to sustain yours

I would feed you
My own flesh to sustain yours
And stay with you ignoring my needs

Until you are grown and on your way
And then, with my life's mission done
I could fade

I am the sun setting in spectacular glory.
You are the warm Gulf waters caressing
As you wash along my ragged shoreline
Lovingly lapping late into a humid evening.

I hear the soft whooshing, smell the brine,
Watch the shorebirds returning home,
Hear the earnest, varied calls and cries,
As they with singular intent soon disappear.

How dear you all are to me.

The joy of spring
Our summer games

After a dream
Our oeuvre starts anew

A slumber which held
An image of you

You, so true
I become spellbound
For it is raining flowers

Of books
Of page

Of filled
Of empty

Of trees
Of blades

Of green
Of gold

Of life
Of change

Of letting go
These are the things I know

Of leaves

Of trees
Of blades

Of green
Of gold

Of life
Of change

Of letting go
These are the things I know

Of leaves