flights of dreams

As eastward  winds
bring fresh made clouds
to grace a timeless face in passing beauty

woven glows become tendrils
silvered dark and shadow.
The eyes feed imaginings
faint shapes and tendencies
to deceive...for yet it is true;  I believe
that Love resides in that
which men have made of you.

We cannot hide our faith in things
that bring the poetry of deeper moments
when will becomes a petal,
the moon its beautiful flower
and memory shreds the age of days.

We bathe in soft light and wanting...
give rise to flights of dreams, and wait
with a patience unknown-
even to self- for something
we simply will not be without.
Like breath or the ceaseless voice of  thought
it is in us, in a place, that makes us.

a constant thing

when i say  'nothing has changed'
how can i help the lie

every second brings us

a step away ...
and closer to...

yet, there is a constant thing
that clings from heart to eyes, and now
through this sand-slide deluge of time
when i find a moment that passes slow

it is because it is held
by you...

Strumpet...

The whore in Iraq
sweet America used like
a street strumpet, abused
by men who did not love you
used for money

and they put you there
where virtue was a memory
where life was cheapened by lies
and death rained like mother's tears
after smoky bombs
and bullet filled air

and even now
as the years seem like minutes
so the dead are still lost to us
and oil still the price we pay
to the unborn who will freeze in strange heat
sweat in anomalous cold

breathe-in the folly of our age with
bitter tastes, as we fill their world with angers
their eyes with soot and burial ash

when memories like hatching eggs
bring the return of hatred, and
sands give back what we have sown
and time will own us; for the bonds
of truth...are unbreakable.




!0th Anniversary of the Iraq War ... hdm

seeds of invention

within every lost love
a fruit of a splendid season
are seeds of invention;
a search for rich black soil,
a  journey already begun.

Within every momentary sadness
is a joyful memory, gratitude for
a day of sun, a wishful dream.

Within the heart is a piece of stone
a marker of fallen life
and the mourners march
to slow beats pace, then quicken
race to windows where the Moon
makes a moment or stars
gleam into the sea  so we know
the world spins, takes us with it
as love is a swirl beneath the waves; and

within the  hard and flinty stone
is the power of fire

23rd Love poem

In a time of Moon and Jupiter
is  cold that holds so many warm thoughts.
There an ancient waltz of distant orbs
plays close to mind and eye; a certain
delight in winter skies, soon gone.

Spring will ring in the hearts of many
in this time of Moon and distant throngs of Moons
let my thoughts find a close orbit
in your eyes as they take in more of this world
its pains and the lights- yes, even within them.

As of  near and distant Moons, bright comet swoons
we create mystery to explain the known.
You are faraway yet frequently near
when I think of dear words, and moonlit epithets.

morning rustles

bedsheets and fuzzy focus

how many dreams were problems

how many problems were dreams

reality settles like feathers from a  pillow fight

then a gust of goals raises all again

an open door into a hurricane

morning rustles,

like the other set of legs

that twine and squeeze, steal warmth

leave when still wanted, stay through

near cramp…

rustles

like the unknowable, chaff in windy winds

against the window ; reminding of spring

yet to be, to be soon, always too brief , and asks

did we plant flowers and good foods

trim and clean and rebuild a dilapidated...

fertilize and hoe, touch black soil and inhale

and remember

the Loves we have sent to ground

the Loves that made us, kept us to then

when love became a last spring

and springs  began to rustle…in slow

descent like the stuff of  broken pillows

a patient search

losing love on Monday
She steps between dimensions.
Into the past

from the present day, though it slips away
like sand trickled through fingers, a sense lingers
one of satisfied expectation; without confines
of prediction: as mind defines noteworthy surprise.

Losing love on Monday
begins a cycle anew, a patient search
for what one  knows to be, found treasure
mystic pleasures of  connection

A day in spirit is an eternity in which
to dwell, an unimaginable end, an unobtainable silence
an never ending emptiness-- ( there is Spring time within)
the seed of invitation
to find love,  lost...on Monday

muse

You inspire

with slow movement of lips
a butterfly flight I see in your eyes;
in the way you look at me

to see far more than I imagine...Inspire
with fires in your urgent whispers
with loving that thrills my skin

Yes, You in ways

I can sometimes only feel in a place within
inspire...like the fold of Heavens in a setting sun
or the roll of stars to the glow of the Moon
Feel You, 

flowing into my thoughts...like breathing