There is a song of dying moments
I refused to sing with you,

a song of waning and of passing;
themes most common to all men,
but then the winds rose
blowing strongly,
and my fledgling faith was shaken,
oh my faith was badly shaken,
badly shaken by the wind.

In the middle of the gale
amid the storm of memories,
you came to me,
a small, brave lighter
with a fierce, exciting flame,

I found I had become a man,
when it happened I'm not sure.
I wonder if anyone can
the line between is never pure.

There was a time when school and sports
seemed the center of the world,
a microcosmic life of sorts
from which I was far too soon hurled.

But even then I stayed a child
although married and employed
with transition not quite reconciled.
Manhood was that with which I toyed.

corner cross
the wishbone spring
that the worth wound forth
from

brisk brightness
glossy in the slipstream
turn down vollaire avenue
sentry neck arch
ginger tinged

powder misted
beneath us
the stonework lairs
"reve de minuit"

puff a kiss about
the slender Cohiba

palms calist
a crooked back,
and silver temples.

shaky like a new born deer,
fragile in age.
wisdom spread across your face

scars spell out your life story
the old blue tin,
my childhood treasure chest.

your old jean jacket,
tall tales of rebellion,
and sawed off shot guns.

singing our anthem
windows down,
smell of the old Cutlass

shameless ambition sown deep
never to fallow,
raised to lead.

hero to my falling city,
saving my world,
and flying into the sunset.

http://vocaroo.com/i/s1fVmHdaS3tN

AP by Ron Woodruff (BlueDemon77)

You the kind, my muse in the past

Never have minds and bodies worked

with such little effort

a day I know, and grabbing

the power and the scrotum

I knew it would be the end

......but I am powerful

You have been so gracious

took responsibility yet

always knew that an

angular
defined by the crooks
of letters
turned so that
their faces twist
into sheer delight

blazing
as open windows
in a burning house
so hot that the frame
morphs
into his haunted face

strong
if only for fleeting glimpses
into the future
that never came
and the passion

the passion
that has always
been

the simple fragrance
shorn of love
licked clean by the winds
the emerald circue
of a cache phrase

ribbons of pleasure
like flails of midnight
the chilled brilliance
of a heel in a hallway

nerve capacitor fills
rising like a barrel
a narcotic twitch
the silken arm brush
of an enamel frame
the yellow bulb of a
lost age
throwing light on
the little staged
operetta

A tiny weenie little ‘pidey
building her web
right across my monitor.

Poor little thing
though you’re most welcome
are you sure
this is your native habitat?

I hope and pray
exposure to the gamma rays
and other nasty effusions
from my screen
don’t cause confusions
in your genes

Will I wake one dreadful dawn
and mourn
my hospitality
finding you grown
into a huge mutant,
of great ferocity?

Day left with the summer,
winter's night is queen,
her icy dresses flaunted in the stream,
her starry lights the beacons of our dreams,
she freezes mirrors for her toilet,
decks the trees in graceful sweeping skirts,
her hair the gossamer of frosted lakes,
their wandering mists that rise into the weakened sun,
low slung among the firs,
her combs that card the heavens with her curls,
her toes reach deep among the roots,
her blossoms grow on twigs like crystal flowers,
her song an eerie wail among the pines,

Looking rather like
A rotationally challenged pair
Of the reddest veined breasts

I gaze back into my rendered
Retinas, which are healthy
And good, I guess, since childhood

Deigned them only a short
Focal length, shorter than my
Memory of anatomy

As retinas go. Blindingly obvious
The parallels with trees and roots
Or things with roots that see

Faintly tracing back a path
Through blood to something core
And bright as a disk