finds me (a doggone muttering Homo sapien)
to give pause for reminiscences
and to take stock (sh lock and barrel)
about mein kampf in general
and previous three hundred
and sixty five days in particular
assessing some laudable accomplishments,
where inside my mind I beam radiance
envisioning an imaginary hit parade
supporting my local mummers
and married poppers
trumpeting like Dumbo the elephant,
yours truly decked out
donning red zoot suit
proud heterosexual with pride
to sport gay apparel,

My river flows
through mountains
of warm winter whites
amid exalted grays

sometimes I rush downward
sometimes I spill over
sometimes I just drift along
chasing wandering ways

My river flows
through valleys
of springtime, alive
with lavender blue

some days I run wild
some days I am tranquil
some days I mirror the sky
letting heaven fall through

My river flows
through oceans
of summer's grand green
deep within its teal bed

Naming a mountain.
THERE was a time I came from the north
Slow through the thick wet world
On approach, would see
It’s great hunched shoulders, reared
Against the wind, as the ground below fell
And the world disappeared

There was my beacon, tipped with
A man made broadsword, perched
At the highest point, placed,
When I was small, far, abroad
A great beacon tower to cast
Out the word, to every listening
Wireless blood in the land

To the voice
That prods me
And makes me
A better poet.

For the words
That I add,
To improve
The poems that I write.

For the one
Who reminds me
To sustain
The rhyme
And rhythm
In my poems.

For the one
Who reads
My poems
On Neopoet.

My gratitude
To you.
And all the very best
For the New Year!

…. I will scratch these lines through limestone
in dry spells and torrents of acid rain. Shapes large,

shapes small will scratch in hunger
for one whispered letter. The drill bits, brutal and crooked,

will scratch out another bit of vowel, one more perch for the owls.
Your name; significance sandblasted by time. Your name--

Majestic is the royal rose,
and lovely is the lily.
The daisy's a delight that grows
upon the land so hilly.

A tulip field's a sunset gold,
poor poppies' hearts are bleeding.
The orchid is for luck, we're told.
A weed, no one is needing!

The lotus is the Buddha's bloom,
for love and peace is praying.
It thrives among the grime and gloom
in sacred breezes swaying.

Delayed by crowds of sullen money misers
I push through the crowded stores
I wouldn't care if they all died
while munching on fireplace smores

I do it just because, I guess,
of societal demands.
My wallet is shrinking back from me
and my shaking hands.

I have an office party to get to,
I don't want to be delayed.
Maybe I can snatch a kiss
from under mistletoe, and that new office maid.

Eleven
Came to me
In my dreams,
And made me feel good,
Warmed me up,
Deep inside.

Along with that number
Came Shaya (my husband)
Who was with me,
Close by my side.

Saying nothing,
Looking straight ahead,
At that white bedhead,
That was now a tombstone,
With 4+7=11,
Written all over it,
And then he disappeared.

It took me
All day
To realize
What my dream meant.

Shaya had come
To be with me
When I decided
To choose the tombstone.

Friendship's flame, not a wild, but steady light.
It warms my soul through shadowed depths of night.
Mine burns with life’s softest hues, calm and true,
In quiet hearts, where words need not ensue.

It isn’t forged in throngs or fleeting crowds,
Nor shouted high by boastful voices loud.
It lives within my sister’s knowing glance,
And laughter shared with him, my soul’s own dance.

My eyes glaze
Looking straight through the haze
Surrounding your face
Most people avoid
What doesn’t bring them joy
So they stay wrapped in tin foil
For the rest of they’re days
But I see through
I see you
In your room
With a knife
Wondering why life
Has so much strife
A little more can’t hurt
But it isn’t worth
Seeing the blood squirt
Think to your future, your past
The pain won’t last
The squirt
Of that blood can’t be worth
The hurt