To a Love

In a time of complexity
we found simplicity
squishing apples in the

the rotten meat splaying
forth a core with
seeds of a new generation
open and athirst

as I walked through
the Garden of Eden where
we did not sin
no, we loved

we loved until bodies ached
ribs busting
hearts jumping to rhythm
yes, we loved

love has a taste
if tender time be taken
salt on skin as touched by dew
bodies laying together

under the moon of
a day’s work done.

Love Thee

Love thee not
yet I love thee so

plucking red rose petals
from the expectant surge

at the floodgates
where the lonesome awaits and

says please

love thee not
yet I love thee so

the lonesome awaits
for an extended hand

a swimmer who fails to grasp
and she sings her song

love thee not
yet I love thee so

release, let go.

Second Gaze

Within insides
buried in insides
are expectations
held close to the bosom
that when you gaze
to the mirror
the face of God
gazes back

an image promised

yet when a gaze
yields haze
the clouded judgment
of a
Los Angeles summer

you are confused
for where is God
and how must He
be found

in the muddled
of dust and dross
which the mirror whispers
in the sly of its gaze


yet upon second look
He is there

the mystery unveiled
bewilderment and beguilement
rampant running in

wrinkles formed in the worries
of no matter

for to always look second glance
a friend looks back
lips upturned in smile

and all is well.


How many times must we lose ourselves in order to find ourselves?  To act as miners digging through coal in the dark of night to find the light of diamonds?  In the womb we have no voice, but we speak, for words are not requisite for speech.  As our beings are born unto the earth and we grow as buds on stems, sound sticks like honey and words cannot resist the sweet entrapment.  With voice, we find ourselves, and through finding ourselves, we dialogue as whispering mutters chattering in the theater before the play is to begin.  For today is the rehearsal for tomorrow’s endeavor.  When we lose voice, our primal communication from being to being, road to river, mountain to highway, we lose grasp of an essential component of our existence.  In limbo we float, fruit in Jell-O in the ambrosia salad, until one outstretched finger tip joins with another, and life is renewed.  Cold and cough may come as wayward visitors on the path to enlightenment, shake hands and stay for awhile, burrowing in the softness of tissues held to nose and mouth.  Yet as birds fly north, cough does too, and lips elapse air, breath born to voice.  As mountains we climb, we proclaim from lofty heights the supremacy of voice, and utter, as softly as the language of the womb, I have found myself again.

Stumble Upon

Carly Simon and clouds
in my coffee

take sips from the transit radio
of the train

I hopped on five minutes
the seats of the train old
but refurbished like

someone’s grandma
went to town
had a field day
bleach up and down
side to side

side to side
my eyes dart

my eyes expecting

but no

clear skies the captain

I like this captain
he’s new so you know
the deliverance through
the storm

sounds fancy, right?

well, it is
fancy and fine
fine as frog’s hair

he says

I look down at yesterday’s
paper it speaks to me
read in the captain’s
voice the words
changing growing
disappearing appearing


captain of the skies
clear as can be

wielder of the pen
the past unwritten.

Shopping at Goodwill

I peruse shelves of knick knacks
teddy bears ears worn ragged
chewed bitten
wet with saliva speaking

and lollipops sit at the register
you know they’re liked you
can see tears
running down sloping sides

and you know this is a place
of love

and you know this is a place
where amity never runs dry

but I seem not to care

with my tongue I lick dust
from upper shelves
and crack the glass and squelch
the flames
of candles lighting the way

the local school children folded
cranes to heal and
I take more than I fold

and slowly drain the bucket
which I hold

I cast a sharp word an icy glance
and bite the hand that feeds me

and yet I wonder
where has goodwill gone when
I sit in solitaire biting not
but air

and rusting into immovability
unable to reach to grasp
fingertips that once
stretched back.

The Hornets Nest

The hornets nest hovers
stings poised to strike
needles stable, calculated
veins athirst.
Don’t kick the hornets nest,
don’t kick me where
it will hurt.

Rather hitch me upon
a star,
a far distanced entity
that brings the broken
to the fabric to which
the earnest cling,
for nothingness is a plight
empty and without grasp.

To know is to be free,
yet knowledge begs the
presence of pain;
sensation breeds it.

Hitch me to unadulterated
kick the hornets nest and
let me feel
nerves nudged,
for nothingness is a plight
empty and without grasp.