Put me in a wooded box, under an
Ancient tree I will go far on top of a hill
On my grave place some rocks and stones
I do not need a concrete vault nor a polished
Marble head stone or tears to fall close your eyes
And think of me walking beside you
Picking up pennies, rocks and feathers as I go

If at a later date you should visit my grave
Add one more rock to the pile that's been made
A nosegay of wild flowers would be ok but
Give to the living the best bouquets

Reality is rattling;
forcing fondness and frustration
fo meet and mix,
a medley of memories
that doesn’t taste good
coming back up.
Months spent swallowing
prose and poetry
refusing to remember
aching to express
but unwilling
to see sorrow and smiles
cruelly combined.

jagged curve
rush up and touch
flesh free

the quick and ravaged

thrown down the hall
while the dream tilts
and the picture glass
scrawls a scream

in the quiet the rain fall
is gentle
forest dark as night

this easement
as a replacement
a heart that can never
be held

a pain fresh

a scar sky

night is spilling
from her drains
drawing all away
and I wash
and wash
in the waterfall
in the waterfall
of tears

These values I treasure, to you they seem odd or even strange but on them I believe and rely
Without measure,
Dont make a face or look with disdain
when with my fingers demolish mounds of yam
yams pounded smooth by the pestle in a mortar.
You need not sneer cause I prefer
the tough labour of strenuous pounding,
to the quick fix, of an appliance that can cook, bash and mix.
To me the methods differ, so also does the results:
the former makes a better feel on my tongue,
while the latter lumps short and long.