You flow kinetic
Like a quiet rain - Motion
Leaf in pond water

It fell from heaven
The tree adjusts its own height
Wet roots make for growth

The leaf, dried, wrinkled;
A life aging, it is mine.
Greening gone forever.

standing on the edge
mountain pools
wrinkle stars

Your white velvet soothes
When the magnolias bloom
Heat parches our lips

love doesn’t care ̶
I turn
and look at you

Just as the moon shines
Alone the bright emanates
Within your deep tomb

Sherlock  ̶
the search for home
brings mysteries

stop pouring
the glass is empty
it is too much

A woodlouse strolling
The spider watches from strands
Vibrations are gone

The scent of new snow
To Inhale exquisite
Hints of other worlds

Happy rhythm.  I
Dance with myself.  Forbidden
Pleasure is most fun.

(a corny little poem)
A happy moon smiled at me
If you just look you will see
The happiest skies are filled with love
The moon, the sun, the stars above
So, with this poem I send a hug
And let all above give your heart a tug

You are a papercut,
An irritant in this life.
A sting to the tongue
When licking envelopes.
Insane like the crowd
Shouting, "Do it, do it!"
To the one on the ledge.
Your only goal, it seems
To be a harm to others,
Of which you succeed
Often and repeatedly.
Somehow, it makes you
Feel like a superior man.
But only shines a mirror
To your inferior interior.

Those who are selling hate as a commodity
Do not care to know that when each person
Is lifted up, regardless of gender or race
We all float to the surface where there is
Room for all.

upon my daughter's visit, yesterday

The day I felt you swimming
A little flop inside
Was the day my heart-bird came
Within to reside

The day you came crying
And kicking your way into this world
Was the day my heart-bird
Built her nest sure

The day you told me that for you
No more could be done
Was the day my heart-bird
Burst through my chest

And headed for the burning sun
Never to return

I love my baby with the almond eyes,
China doll face with shining dark eyes.
I love my baby with the golden hair,
She is the one with bluest eyes like the sky.
Through old eyes I can see them there

And see snapshots of them run and play,
Picking wildflowers for me most days.
Swinging high or tumbling on the ground
Running up to me to show what they've found.
Life was so much simpler then.

Now I get to call them daughter and friend.
The years have gone by like a spinning wheel
But I can tell you that I still feel
They will always be my babies though grown.
Here within my heart, they will always be home.

Though each fold be lovingly placed
One thing is for sure it may not glide.

And just because a thing has wings
No matter how you try it may not fly.

And should you ask me why?  
This would be my reply,

"It's just that way with fragile things."

You have taken the sleep from my eyes
And the comfort from my chest.

I have great pain, but there is no medicine.
You have taken the payment and fled,

A ruby-red dries
Crusting under your fingernails, as you do.

What if I say the word
Pomegranate
With pouty red lips
Which glistens with its juices?

What if I do?
How would you feel?
Would you grab me,
- hold me close?

Could I illicit a thousand
Breathless sighs?  Could you?
And you taste the sweet drops
- from my lips?

I will say it over and over
And once again!
Pomegranate, pomegranate,
- Pomegranate

The heat of summer is heavy;
A spider has hung a dragline;
In it a lone leaf dangles and spins

Amidst the humid breeze.
A rattle and hum soon rise as insects  
Calls out, "Beware! Beware, as you fly!"

For a silky trap awaits the foolish
Or the absent-minded soul
Quickly caught unawares.

It’s not about how high you fly
But how long you can stay in the sky.

Try

So, even if you fall and die
At least you had flown.

If you want to fly give up

Everything that weighs you down.
Otherwise, you will remain on the ground.

It’s not about how high you fly
But how long you can stay in the sky.

Try

And, even if you fall and cry
At least you had flown.

We do not question
Beneath canopies, secrets
Deep forests expose

"Lovely" The word slips between my lips
As a sigh.

The day is hot,
The water cool.

We are young
And reasonably beautiful;

Something, which no one can take away
From us, except for time.

Honeysuckle weeks
Filled with humid heat
Where the hot Texas sun plays
And I know where to seek
What it is that hang, unsung,
On an old broken fence rung.

I, in my bare feet,
Reach in, pluck a vine to retreat
Into the cool dense shade
Among the pecan grove, hid away
To sit and harvest drops
Of the sweet liquid inside.

As skilled child harvester, I sit,
Slightly pinch the blossom, then stop,
Free the flower from stamen with a slide
For Summer’s ephemeral gold drops
Unseen treats one only can get
During honeysuckle weeks.

The morning sun struggled
Against the bindings of the horizon
Until like a newborn it was ground-free
Up and out, it went and came into the world
Pulling hopes and dreams along with it
Like lovely streamers on rising balloons
Flowing in the hopeful breeze of day
A brand-new day

In which to hope and dream

We shelter in place with our shadows
With eyes darting back and forth in fear,
Wondering what might come creeping near.
Thoughts haunt us in every place and every space.

Painful detritus blocks the doorway of release.
We can only wander from room to room in grief.
Trapped within an encumbered mind, we find
Blacked-out portals of foil-covered windows, all!

Our fears only serve to make us each feel small.
But we are not small, not at all.  We can win the race
If we allow Grace to shovel a path through the mess,
And Hope grasps our hand and leads us out.

This is why it is said: We all need Hope.

Touch
A heightening of senses

Touch
Bristling beneath it

Horripilation
Sweeping up bodies -

From the Latin, horrere pilus,
"to bristle" + "hair" -

The most delicious
Can be the most poisonous

Exploding with each
Touch

Anticipation erupts
Touch

At the very thought
Of such delicious fruit

Touch

Suddenly you realize

How fragile life is,
Like a heavy Texas flood
Crushing, crashing, gushing
And taking things from you.

Ironic it is that for some
It takes the shortage of turkeys
Or the scarcity of eggs
To make that realization.

Dreams are the substance
As shadows move
But the darkness
Seems never to lift

Until suddenly
With the start of clarity
It becomes beautiful poetry
And flows across the page

You are left wondering
At its ability
To gather itself
And become reality

A taste, a sight, a sound, a smell,
A touch, a feel, a thought, a breath,
A life, a death, a being, or nothing at all.

Within a mind almost devoid of thought
These begin to swirl and paint the words
On the canvas of a mind.

They lived a life in the dark shadow of slavery
And had become like the black cherries
They sneaked, so astringent they puckered the mouth.
They ate them, anyway, out of necessity.
Lizzie had said to Nat that she would wade
Through blood and tears for her freedom;
And, she did, they both did,

Nourished and aided by the kindness of strangers.
William Still conducted his railroad and with the withal, drive,
And the necessity of freedom, that basic human necessity, they ran.  
1857 was the year to run.  On June 10, 1858, Nat sent a letter
To the conductor: "Sir, be so kind as to . . ."
It contained a message to his family in Maryland,
"He and Lizzie were safe and free."

Some rush to the train wreck
To seek a sick thrill
Others flee the train wreck
Afraid of what they might feel

Some rush to the train wreck
Not for the thrill,
Not afraid of what they feel
Because they genuinely care

About those in the train wreck

I watch you play
Small and mighty
Yet you are flighty
Swift as an arrow
A funny fellow
Beauty shimmers
Light glimmers
As beat tiny wings
Inebriation
On occasion
Or so it seems
You sip then zip
Away

When a hummingbird flies
Its wings sing in flight,
Chattering as it moves,
Briefly settles, day or night.
They are tiny miracles.

When a hummingbird dies
Because its bones are so light
They disintegrate in a short time.
They truly are ephemeral things,
Brief beings on fluttering wings.

You left a trail of breadcrumbs
That would lead back to you
Hungry little bird that I am
I ate them one and all.
Every one led me back to you.

You left a trail of breadcrumbs
That would lead back to you.

Hungry little bird that I am
I ate them one by one, and all,

Every single one,
And here I am.

I could forgive you just about anything,
My precious one.
The sun will still rise in the sky,

And my heart-wound will heal
My eyes will dry.
But we will all be changed by careless acts,

And never be the same.

When I see who you were back then
And who you are now, I am confused

Not born with a silver spoon, yet refined
You rebelled, then, and craved my family

We were unabashedly affectionate and kind
And your spine was tired of the iron rod in it

Being told you disappointed them daily
Eventually took your joy away, and you too

You met a man at college that they loved
Who could give you nice things, them prestige

You had finally caved to their status quo
Now who you are I simply no longer know

And I am left to wonder, did I ever know you

Crawl into my branches
Let me cradle you
How can we go
From one to two
If you remain
On the ground

I dialed your number
Let it ring

Once, twice
Quickly hung up

Why would fear seize me
Dear old friend

Perhaps it is because
We occupied a place
Best forgotten

They walked into the booth
“Pulled the lever,” pull out their gun
Then shoot themselves in the foot

And hobble away.

Now these days, as they slap themselves
Upside the head it is heard them say,
"I could have had a V8!"

If my heart had hands
Your name it would write.

If my head had arms
It would hold you with all might.

Since my heart and my head
Lead the way

My feet will carry me to you
Without delay,

Without delay, my love,
Should you but call me.

If it were possible
I would choose only
To outlive you briefly

To give you succor
In your final days.

Then I would wither
Like the brief blossom
Of wildflowers in a field
To stop my heart's pain.

The flip side

I have loved you
- Tenderly
- Passionately
- Deeply
- Completely
- Without reserve
- Worshipfully

I have hated you because you made me.
I have hated with the same passion as I have loved.

Success can be subjective
Failures teach us how to succeed

I have something shocking to tell you:

Victory is a figment of your imagination
Think about that . . . Let  that sink in . . .

Imagine yourself victorious

A blood-orange, peeled, bleeds bright
across the horizon, then slips silently
beneath a wave of ruddy light, so sanguine.

Night falls away to a golden glitter
spilling glimmering light above our heads;
a cricket stretches and moans a scratchy tune.  

We drink of this spilled juice,
wear the sparkles in our hair,  
and dance to the tiny violinist's song.

You were all the world to me in this scene.
You were a blood-orange bright.  
You were the sparkle of the night.

You were and are the cricket's song forever in my ears.

Her clothes are tatty, ratty, and soiled.
He needs a haircut and a shave.  Hair grows down his neck!
They are talking, but to who?  Themselves? An unseen being?
They grow unkempt in a forgotten garden.  They are not weeds,
They are wildflowers.

I had a cherry
You had a kumquat

I found a key instead of a pit
And you found a lock

Together we fit