The stream (all workshops)
After working until lack of light
I headed toward the homestead, bright
listening to all the peepers sing
on a late April evening
A moth came with me through the door
as if he'd often done the same before
he dove and fluttered through the air
above the couch and easy chair
I left him flitting in the den
as I went to the warm kitchen
to find my supper set out there
and my love with whom my day to share
Friends of the human kind
What love fathers give
Where on earth can one find?
I miss my father each day
But when I see his picture
He comes alive, though
Aeons ago he passed away.
Tears of happiness
Sorrow and joy
Trickle down my face
As my loving father’s
Face, this dew drops trace.
Father come back
If only for a moment
So that I can just feel you
If only you can come through.
we walk together on friday nights
under a swirl of wet leaves
clinging
to unclothed limbs and faces long and lonely.
there's a round puddle
where our rain boots make waves for the boat
some child of eight left behind.
here and again we eye the miles of fences
and the NO TRESPASSING signs
nailed on wood or vinyl with a splash of red.
our footsteps wind around the corridor
where a group of strangers
smoke pipes
string violins for the nightingales
and recite unwanted haiku to the march moon.
.
Johnny doesn't speak of time
or the universe or God anymore
not in the metaphysical sense
he no longer requires a daily dose of boredom
and vaguery
sees a beautiful face
no words, just sees
a muscle car
a slight growl deep down in his throat
a pool table
a sly smirk
a smoke, a toke
a cold bottle of beer
elicit an honest "ahhhh"!
His name was Noble,
fitting for his character,
a big man poured dark
into a uniform
eternally a size too small,
his grip engulfing whenever
we shook hands,
but never hurtful.
He guarded us on graveyard shift,
watching every night
framed by our always-open door
even in the coldest times,
and strolling all the
lengthy paths of busy warehouse
narrow between racks and pallets,
ever watchful of and for us.
this box contains letters
love letters i wrote
and never sent
they would've arrived
at wrong times
or got lost in transit
this way i can read them
remind myself i loved you
some people never go crazy
in their simple lives
their simple dreams
that won't get in the way
these letters
will never get old
you will never get old
i wrote them in
early fall
it won't wither,
won't lose its colors
away away
we are caught in currents
duress
sleight of hand
and at the gate
the idling engines
just this light
from window banks
slakes my thirst
and I hunger
in the miles
tracing from us
I yearn for so much
and we give so little
precious is the we
of all
this tide that sweeps
away the histories
The image in my mind of you
is different from my heart,
never planned to seek the likes of one
whose mind was faliing apart.
For surely even you can see
I'd never make that choice,
unless you couldn't hear me
like I didn't have a voice.
At any rate I realize
you may not share my view,
but I just cannot fathom
living with the likes of you!
Because that isn't living
the living don't give up,
I apologize for wanting
more than water in my cup.
the graphics of the past always blur her way,
reverting to an illusion somehow part of the day.
yet i know she can make it and on the track she'll stay..
during the time the ghosts of memories find its time to play.
she was in the middle of two constant-changing worlds,
and it takes time for her to smile or at least make a forged,
wounds inside were like thorns killing with a monster's urge...
even silence is disturbing - puzzles,blanks..and words..
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