after the rain

The branches bow to ground
as raindrops weigh it down, and they
sway slowly as mists rise.
Drawn to the beauty, perfect red
sculpted blades, I lift it close
unto my inadvertent touch.

I kiss the flower after the rain
and softly the  petals stain my lips
with evening's scents, and floating
-a moment adrift as if in a dream.
As the warm wind lifts
the traces of flower touch;
it leaves my whispers in an inward stare
among the slow beat of verging drips.

parking plot

My eye slowly reforms, and makes
the icebergs and iridescent lakes
all over the big store parking spaces.
The mind is a treasure,
and imagination is its leisure;
it takes journeys to faraway places.

The glow of street lamps shine
turn asphalt into wavy brine,
and a dead leaf into an exotic isle.
Tree to tree in thick canopy
with power over all I see;
I rule the honeyed land by wit and guile.

 The angry sea would punish me
for sins of poisoned air and greed.
Its deep inhale strands sails; into alarm
as it builds itself until fearsome roars
sends it pounding towards crowded shores.
Sensing doom and the  awful rolling swarm,

I call the Sun to pull to West
and wind lifts me to crescent's crest
Swing from the moon and grab a falling star;
riding on doubtless faith, and air
lifts my reach like a golden stair.
My hand made firm, belief is the power;

I yank the tide and stretch it low
return the sea its peaceful glow.
Save the land and the people that I love
Brown skinned shimmy as hips gyrate
the wide eyed beauties celebrate,
wine and laughter fly to heavens above.

 Fond embraces raise body heat
 dance of love, doesn't miss a beat
 it simply seems the natural thing to do
fantasy so real, I want more
 cross the lot and open the door
a dream, and a car seat to sink in two

street corner cool

waiting in the cold wet snow
for a city bus that never shows
the biting cold cuts straight through
the big ideas and things you'd do

It grinds you down to a single thought
about the old car you should have bought
standing in the slushy snow and ice
wouldn't that warm car air feel nice
and the women who go rushing by
would slow down and smile, maybe say 'hi"
Then cold wet snow would help you find
the sweetest lips and roundest behinds
that the City can offer, and lookig down
the snowy boulevard, is that the bus comin'?
or just the way the trucks keep runnin'

Regrets bite like the flying snow and icy sleet
lo and behold, orange lights comin up the street
I bind my collar, and flinch into a sudden  huddle
as the bus soaks my pants when it raises the puddle!

touched by wind

a heart laid bare, shivers
like a newborn touched by wind
the moving air raises its tender skin
and it shivers for want of warmth

a heart, exposed to the whims
of passing gusts and clouds
that hide the sun, feels so much
then quickly goes numb
and feels nothing, but there
in the solitude of distance
from any loving touch
is its moment of truth

An acceptance that the heart
is forever alone, and touched too harshly;
its weakness is its power, and
its strength in its needs.

For it open the eyelids unto dawn
impels the first step of day,
and fuels the long and desperate search
for human warmth and more, and more
human warmth

red in the shadow

three bright planets in a row
Venus beams, Jupiter gleams
faint Mars, red in the shadow;
Orion stands and Rigel streams
above beautiful stars that have no name

a sawed down fir, sends fingers into the sky
it waits celebration of Forgiveness
a hidden sacrifice of nature's miracle
three bright lights at five AM
and I have a day to gain
everything i have never done, not won
and the itch of each second, tingles...

a slow descent

Now is the time
to speak of love, not in a whisper
but  roars like the howl of storm and sea
like thunders in the belly of world
when Titans shift brawny shoulders
and the Earth groans

Now is the time
to raise voice and claim peace,
for it is not easy on the hardest day.

Now is the time when innocent ground
hungers, and dry leaves of the season
have nothing to give, it is the time
for the higher part of the heart
to sing a song in future tense;
when we can look back and see
a season of our hands raised in anger,
and a slow descent into reason.

far from dawn

Some things only make sense,
in a quiet pause, resenting sleep and
far from dawn
slowly sipping Irish Whiskey.

The little bite on tongue dissolves into flavor
and one savors thoughts
as if tones on palate
slowly sipping ...

Intruding rudely the loud report
of little men once again
making ruin in the jewel- Paris;
Lives spilled, run red on ancient streets
we meet once again the face of loveless life
a banner of carnage, upon the soul of innocence...

I fight back the wells that verge, and
get lost in better possibility, and prayer
for some things make no sense at all, even when
slowly, sipping Irish Whiskey.

an Autumn Blues

When grasses slow then cease to grow
their green blades wither to rust
and the slanted sky brings a sad goodbye
to warmer days, and now a leafy crust
finds the sole of my shoe
and an empty wish for something lost

So soon, the warmth gone, and cool days
and bundled-up ways come crowding through.

The birds see it too, and gold finches flash
to gather hard seeds, as summer's missions
find completion; in the glad recreation
of spring yet to be, is a recipe for perfection.

The ground firms in coolness, silently
fat, red worms relent and go deep.
They seem like the baring trees, ready
for wintry haze and sullen sleep.

I feel the urge to south, grow wings, fly
rise on lifting winds, as scented air comes forth
in lotus and nightly lilac- such unwanted pause
this frigid pall; the descending crawl from north

comes whether I wish it to be.
 I wonder as eyes scan the rainbow canopy
if the stoic evergreens can sense  my envy

Autumn song

Alas, I have no simple words to bring
the carefree ways made summer days stand still,
nor vividly relive  the giddy spring
as sun-filled  thrills suspend the winter chill.

Once again, I step upon the crossing roads
tween season loved and one that needs to be,
and spy gaunt specter of  its heavy loads,
a path to joy in stony misery.

I fly and glide with blades made by sun;
its dried bones take wing in final flight.
Each leaf a mark to things that time has done
uncovered green to shades of captured light.

 In the play of life, time writes every part,
its echoes ring the seasons in my heart.

the rare air

sometimes the softest lips  leave a mark,
a sign of passions, a small cherry on skin.
Fading quickly and nearly forgotten
until a casual glance brings back a memory
and the skin reminds us of who we have been

a Lover, a cherished pair, a casual reply to an embrace

Passions can trace time and we can know
the sacrifice of a few cells was nothing in compare
to the rare air that only exists
a moment before touch, on the verge of a kiss.

hallow's evening...

Warm night and starless sky
at the pagan time of harvest; as night neared
the hopes and fears of ended year
hung in a palpable balance, for their walls
unseen between this hope  and that dream
seemed drawn, thinned to the point of nothing.

Everything here could pass to there
souls and evils, loves and un-willed passage
all blended in the thick autumn night.
Oh starless sky, where has Orion wandered
and the great bear? No pole star to guide
the conscience of men, and once again
the tale of the harvest bespeaks
a future fine or famine, and weeks of labor
under bright moon found them alone
all saints and hallow's evening, into night...

They wondered of this newer faith
and the far more ancient ways, as they
blend into a finer truth;
as time and men distill  a lasting elixir.