I have become
as spagyric art
A will-o-wisp of the pen

as each ink drop falls,
it reflects its alchemy
in my eyes,
like drawing fraternal twins
in a jade sky

I see a measure
of my sadness,
and my joy
presented as
balanced scales
perfectly level
they scatter apart
against a northern wind

tiger blue dragonflies
possess my mind
and the walls sweat
green moss
symphonic trumpets
herald the flickering

lifted and scorched
I separate to join,

Intent faces, scrubbed and clean
In the classrooms bold and keen

The future engraved upon this land
In trusting eyes and busy hands

Horrendous noise and injured mind
And sorrow is all that's left behind

Smiling faces, peals of laughter
Walking now in the great hereafter

RIP little ones...

In those days when we were children
We tried all manners of fool-around
Butterfly hunting brought real fun
Petals of paw-paw leaf at hand
The hollow trunk filled up with sand
The battle cry was sounded loud

We ran from wayside to the bush
Attacking all flying insects
Like unto war the kids charged on
Sand from barrels of papaya
Out to cripple colorful wings
The game was without twists and turns –
Not what it has turned out to be

Tuscany shades and hues, thatched roof, dry
in a field that's whiskey clear;

pretentious are all my docile minutes
whose very moments l do fear.

Spreckled, twisted awnings gleam
so wildly beautiful to my eye;

the withered truth is replicated
'til it clearly tells a lie.

Afterwards, pressed coats and cardigans
become outfits in many ways;

they'll be lined-up and seen in the fog
just to clarify it's not a haze.

Semi-rusty lemon drops
stretch my pockets to the "full";