My grief lies below the 6-foot mark.
Yet, my hope rises above that depth
Where there are many hands to hold.
I recall that hope is an anchor for the soul.
And then I come to understand and know
That I can endure almost anything.

Shark and Grizzly wander in and out
Nightmare-

More so than psychotic humans
Scary thought-

I live in the city

Drunk caresses, drunken skin,
Drinking in wanton pleasures;
Blood with fever drink on.

Voice island too far to hear-

Hands throw me down,
Take what is mine,  
Then stumble away.

It all began with a moon;
A waxing gibbous moon
Glistening in the sky;
Beauty staring back at me
Within my glassy eyes.
Anchored to the jutting rock
Which is just above the rise
Are my hope and dreams
Of sailing throughout time.
In a celestial sailboat with wings
Onward I would glide.
On through time and tide,
With flags and ribbons streaming,
Fluttering in the breeze, I slide
Into swirling lovely slipstreams
Ever onwards I am steaming
Way up high and dreaming
In a celestial sea vast and wide
If only in my mind!

Give me the words that tell you everything,
Let me start an echo against your heart;
Rhythmic words to bounce and return,
Caressing, Love, until you know.

How brief, this life, oft filled with pain
That those more worthy should die,
More worthy than me.  

And I live still.
"Hasta luego," until later, dear friend
And until the day we meet again.

"This whole neighborhood
Bad, Baby.  We broken.
Ever week somebody get shot,
Right here!"

We drove because we saw the top of the mountain covered with snow.
Our desire was to feel its beauty.  As we traveled up and up
The forest encapsulated us with its velvety-richness; and the sound,
My heart pounding and the cascading waterfalls, played the music of the Soul
In the forest.  On we drive up the narrow road until there is no coming down.

The sky is gray, today
Imprinted on its face
Marks like ancient text
That when read says
Behind this veil is hope

Vestigium, a Latin word meaning "footprint, trace."

Day hides behind a curtain of white,
So hides the night, the fading night.
The fog that descended before the light
Moves and curls around the lights brightly.
The earth is swallowing the memory of the sky.

With pressed-tight lips and dreary-eyed
I am staring into the obscure day, forming
As the fog leaves a footprint, a trace
On objects and roofs, then slyly drips down.
Its soft coolness covers me, as well.

Where is the context of things barely seen?
An ephemeral blanket closes in on us all.
Unsettling until the day is elucidating sight.
The lights all have halos like a holy thing.
At least it gives each one a certain clarification.

Still, the fog is closing in.

You seek to go,
up and up.
So, I let you decide.

You go your way,
up and up,
I just watch you,

And enjoy the ride.
Up and up
You strive to new heights.

Yellow scents the page
With many decades of age.
When gingerly pried open
The dry binding creaks.

Inside grows a faint mold
And it spreads in streaks
Across the brittle folds
Within the pages crease.

Cloudy wafts of odor, light
Hang buoyant in the air,
Like so much lost knowledge
Folded within its pages there.

Viola, with suddenness the cry,
"It is spring!" they all sang
In chorus oh so sweet.
They spread their wing
And as sweetly they sing
Opening wide their tiny beaks,
(Yes, some even stamped their feet!)
Singing loudly, for all the bright world,
"Spring has finally been reached!"

Sweetly you I remember
And with deep gratitude
Sweet, sweet, and true
You and your tune
Indebted memory
Trembling am I each time
Like the quiver of a bow
Memory, and I have come
To know that I
Must keep myself
In this precious refrain
Until impulses pass
To hold you once again
Though try as I might I,
Memories to constrain
I am unable to keep myself
From sweet remembering
You, again and again.

My days had gone by more quickly than a weaver’s shuttle,
And they came to an end without hope.
     - Until I looked back at the tapestry that had been woven.

A watchful cat sleeps
The small mouse skitters forward
The sly cat smiles knowingly
He soon will have his dinner

Serene, float among green growth,
Buds desire to open, join the flotilla.
Gentle one, you are like the waterlily
Which grow across the surface,
The still surface of my pond.

The earth sighs, we breathe in
A common breath.
Breathe, exhale. Breath in,
Exhaled.

Humanity sighs, we fear
A common breath.
Vapor floats, spreads out,
Breathed.

We hold our common breath -

We fly,
Like birds,
Like butterflies,
Like angels.

And, what of time?
Drug along as it is
Around a spinning earth;

We fly,
Through space,
Though time,
Through lives.

Yes, what of time?
Bound by laws & perspectives
We fly in relativity.

Will the pluses outweigh the minuses?
The plus is a feather-light ephemeral thing.
A minus can weigh many, many tons.
Of the two to fall on you, choose which one,
Even though, my friend, it is already too late.

Man made his brow
Furrowed like a garden row.
Indeed,

He held his own perfectly
Like eyes looking heavenward
In night skies

Searching for hope.

I am not in love.  But I am not dead.  
And I can replay thoughts of us in my head.

I can remember the feel of it then.
O, how we loved in times lean and thin.

Our yesterdays can never be broken
With each sunrise comes something to hope in.

With you I could feel again.
I am not in love, now.  But I am not dead.

Winter brings sights that warm the heart,

As we observe with wit and patience,
Among its seasonal growing population
It is as if winter brings forth an entire nation
Of many species and their relations.

Take for example our feathered friends
Who busy themselves amidst their clans.
Bright feeders that are placed about extend
Needed food and give the birds a helping hand.

But, by their work, they retain their dignity;
As they go about their important activities.
Yes, among our lovely birds we see
Their busy lives, filled with such industry.

And, by these things we see their poetry.

In a forest, I hugged a tree
And this tree spoke to me.
It said I have branches above
And I have branches beneath.
I have leaves for photosynthesis,
Just look at my wondrous work.
I take in carbon to release oxygen,
I allow you to be able to breathe,
As I take sunlight into my leaves.
Take off your shoes.
Feel this life with your feet,
The process continues below.
Beneath your very feet
A highway for travel exists.
My roots, pushing through
The soil in hairy branches
Spreading out in all directions.
With chemical trails, they speak
To tell bacteria to wake up!
My sweet treat takes up, then
Share with our microbe friends.
Dear human, I want you to know
The phyla inside me and inside you
Are four and exactly the same.
Together we can feed all life.

We were beautiful once.
Beautiful mom, handsome dad.
Such beautiful children produced.

But what is the use when scattered
From pillar to post all around this earth
And cannot find our way back to our home.

Butterflies makes themselves beautiful
From an ugly worm inside a strange case.
They are always able to find their way home.

1st draft
1.
She was like a juicy red apple unpicked
He could never resist

Each time he rode by he'd bite that apple
Reaching way up high

He returned, again and again
Until the day when

Nothing was left but core.


Final draft
2.
She was like a juicy red apple unpicked
He could never resist

Each time he rode by he'd bite that apple
Although for him hung way up high

He returned, again and again
Until the day when

Nothing was left but the core.

There are weeds that exists only
In the minds of short-sighted ones
Who fails to see their beauty.

(From an interview with a young woman who escaped from ISIS)
She is dead and wonders why
Her heart goes on beating.
But, she has been dead before.

She died each time she thought
About the eight year old girl *****
Then taken, a wife for ISIS.

"Take me!" she had pleaded.
Her body would be stronger.
Her mind already knew . . .

So, now, at only twenty,
She dies, again and again.
Yet, her heart and memory will not.

Heat comes up
Heat cools down
Hot-white love
Can turn cool-blue

High color rising
On the horizon's line
Reflecting many colors
In a lover's eye

Beneath each new day
After every storm,
There must be a calm
As lovers often know

As all the lovely birds fly by, and
I am held, breathless, in this moment
Transfixed to the beauty of time and space
And the continuum of time and times and tides;
Across a sky lit by the morning sunrise.
I am caught in the thought, "What is a sunrise?"
It is a sight out the window of life, yes.  Thus,
As the earth slowly turns we get to watch it go by
Ever so slowly and we think we are seeing the sun "rise."
And thus "the world turns" imperceivable in its orbit,
A blue orb in a graceful dance with a bright orange orb.
All the lovely birds have since flown into the morning;
While standing here still I am wondering,
"What is a sunrise, really?

Some of us do not function well in chaos
Some of us can function quite well
And some maintain the status quo

Some of us will rise above
Even as some will sink below
There will be hands to slap away

Even as there will be hands to hold
And as time will undoubtedly go
What, in the end, will be your story told

Are words harmless?  Can they ever be benign?
Between you and I?-

And, how many times has the Soul mated and re-mated?
Tearing, scarring, and numbing the connection.

Is that how and why, we keep this distance?
Or, Love, is it fear of perfection?

The night is a silver cage
Containing the white bones of love;

My heart bleeds for you
I wish I had been able to flesh you out;

Yet, here we are
Barely human, anymore.

I pray that he is not lost to us;
He fell into a hole in his head.
Now, he cannot find himself.
How are we to proceed?

At first, his darkness is soft
And warm and of great comfort.
It comes sharp, dense, scary
In the recesses a cold blackness.

There are no doors, no windows
From which to escape that place.
Only a celestial hand can reach in,
Save him.

Author Raymond Chandler left a poem
Only found after his death.  It read:
“There is a moment after death when the face is beautiful
When the soft, tired eyes are closed, and the pain is over.”

The Psalmist said, "For he well knows how we are formed,
Remembering that we are dust."
And, Job cried out, "Remember, please,
That you made me out of clay,
But now you make me return to dust."

Did not Isaiah give insight?
“Your dead will live.
My corpses will rise up.
Awake and shout joyfully,
You residents in the dust!
For your dew is as the dew of the morning,
And the earth will let those powerless in death come to life."

Indeed, there is a certain beauty in the release at death,
And, in the remaining echoes of who we were.
Yet, there is greater beauty in life.
Regenerate, oh, you dust!  Live, again!

When we are old and gray
(Which isn't so far away!)
Nicessity will call upon me to say,
"Honey, put your teeth in!"

Suddenly the singer is unmasked,
And in the end, it's all clear:
It was always about where the bread was buttered!

Then it hits you!
You are in need of a shovel
Because this stuff has gotten too deep.

You are a fly.  Not the brown-black kind,
But the shiny green-blue type.  You know,
The one that is attracted to stink?
Some people thrive on crap!
What is the value in that?

Absolute magnificences
Held in richly woven garments
Arrayed in opulently fine linen
Washed in the light of ages
Adorned with sliver and gold
And they look upon you

You remind me of the woman that I have lashed
Until finally I ran her off.  God, I loved her.
But, she scared me to death!

It’ll soon be gone.
But don’t get me wrong
I am so very thankful for
The wondrous memories made.

And grateful for the beauty
And at seeing children play
In a world suddenly pure
Under snow’s blanket

Of wintery-white.

I’m holding on for dear life.
Passing seasons have changed me
Causing me to flutter about in the wind.

My spring colors once ran bold and true,
But that, my love, was before I met you,
You, the Winter of my life.

Cold, cold, you.

A powder of pink, blush
Is painted on the baby blue.
The snow falls softly,
As light as goose down.
I walk along a deserted shore
With only birds tracing lines
Across the watercolor sky
Then move into the gentle night.

A very light mist starts,

it is freezing!
I hold my breath because

that is how
You make it snow,

you hold your breath.
How to stop?

With death comes a release.
No, I do not mean for the dead, but for the living.
The living can love more fully in their memories,

letting pain go.  

Like cream which rises in fresh warm, white milk
The seconds, moments, hours, days, months, years
That was filled with joy rise to the top of our thoughts,

And we have that release of bitterness, pain, anger,
Now settled to the very bottom or are discarded completely.
Thus, it leaves an uncomfortable dissonance.

In my ancient history,
A mother stands over her daughter
Twisting her hair into Bantu knots.

The young men gather,
Who built the Great Enclosure
With the strength of mighty warriors.

I am 'umuntu,' a person, I embrace
The ancient beauty in their face,
Their shape, the color of race,

My ancient heritage.

Your eyes, a cloudy blue,
Set the pace and the mood.

We took this long drive
Hoping to help a relationship survive.

The many years of hours spent in pleasures
Are so filled with the things that we have treasured.

Yet, you say that you are tired of trying.  Why?
Don't you know?  Sometimes success happens on the last try.

Like substances broken out from your favorite perfume,
Somethings apart from the whole cannot be understood, nor enjoyed.
The beautiful scent comes from the delicate balance of each component.

Ingredients in your favorite dish do not taste as good as the whole.
Try eating flour on its own and see how far you get, and yet
A dessert made with it can be culinarily divine.

Sand is nice but what is it without the ocean or the ocean with sand?
You could plunk an alpine mountain down into a desert and then what?
The delicate ecosystem will not survive for long and then you have desert.

And what of literature, poetry?  What is its substance made of in the end?
Metaphors, meter, rhythm, rhyme, imagery, assonance, alliteration,
Words, phrases, stanzas, tone and form, ideas expressed to eke out the essence.

How do we construct a poem?
Poetry doesn't have to make sense,
But we want it to.

Tiny, almost minuscule. Hollow *****,
The weight of petite feathers, silken sinew,
Sown into tensile strength, beguiling.

Beauty in song. Greater than giants.
Chirping out lovely textiles of golds and silvers;
Strong enough to hold universes in place.

Sweet like sugar. Sweeter than honey, elixir
Of baby's breath.  It ***** in air, exhales
Through an ***** the size of a raindrop,

Pushes out sucrose-laden vibrations
Which pour into my ears, my brain, my heart,
Until we both pulsate in an oscillating Self.