The stream (all workshops)
On the frozen verge of land and water
my footsteps ring upon the empty sands
Where the wind touches my face with laughter
Warmth of home beckons with promise of shelter
yet pleasure is held in these open hands
on the frozen verge of land and water
For cold gives old father sun no quarter
and empties all the throngs from summer lands
where the wind touches my face with laughter
No thick crowds now crush and make feet falter
no more park rangers smug their dumb demands
On the frozen verge of land and water
Sometimes it starts this way
you're sitting, thinking
mental gears churning
about nothing
and not one idea
about anything
seems to come to mind
So, you just start hammering
on the keyboard
and, still nothing much
a deletion, then another
but you are writing
which is half the battle anyway
And you realize
that even your
best efforts
are lacking ...... alot
and it's all more or less
worthless ..... to most
if I'm American...
i might fill my hunger with breads and cakes. not with rice.
and probably encountered temptations of sex-permissive girls
scattered on Vegas lights.
if I'm Mexican...
it would more likely for me to turn to as a boxer.
one of those guys grasping for the healthiest grilled potato,
to beat Pacman the "Mexi-cutioner"...
`
Rough is the wind that flattens
a tree from its anchored moor,
a destiny not too quick to ruin
presents a whispered word to me:
on we traverse without respite
that weary road we take,
what imprint is left behind
that sweeps relentlessly against these walls--
a spectre of bygone landscapes
whose blustering gusts are raptured calls
`
titularred tyrants
toadyishly taunting
tippler's tingles
tedious temperate timbres
tarrying timeless talisman's
tautological tariffs
try tarnishing tawdry
talkative tableau's
trudging
tallies -- tantamount
to tearful teetotaler's
tell.
.
why dost thou recoil?
hast thou never met a man?
I stand over thee
only because thou dost cower
stand, and face me
even should I be thine enemy
this lowly posture thou adopt
t'was not thrust upon thee from above
'tis but a lie of thine own making
and wilt attract no grace nor mercy
from me, nor the heavens
'til truth of thine aching heart
be known a'loud
speak thy truth,
and know thyself
in the stature thine own natural will
would command
Since we met I have been blind.
Don't get me wrong, though, I don't mind
'cause I can see just plain as day
until I turn my eyes your way.
When I glance at you I see
that child bride so dear to me.
You're still the best thing in my life;
my safe port in times of strife.
Your skin is so soft when in my hand
and in my arms you feel as grand.
The wrinkles of which you oft fret
well, I haven't seen them yet.
Seeking refuge
In your gazing eyes
Your sweet lips
Keep a smile on
Sad faces
Angel that fled from heaven
To ease broken spirits
Stay with me till first light
For your presence
Brings spring flowers
On a winter day
Ah, how your smile echoes
In my darkest hours
Your smile defeats Hades
Your every word flows
Like Shakespearean sonnets
At the stern of the speeding ship
I met her where the railings swept
around the curve of rain-slick deck;
our arms slipped about each other,
and together, in growing warmth,
we fed the soaring gulls.
I reside within a room, book
in hands eyes consumed
on the pages between the
lines forming pictures from
words entwined.
without interruption
I read it through impressions
of an author I never knew.
thought brought to a place
where it is witnessed by
the here and now, open to
endless possibility's
which are disciplined only by
the limitations set out by
ourselves and others around us.
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