ground tremble
thunder
a stillness rushs
rising up like dust

fingers of amber
poised like jewels

discarded parties
woven
meangingful
and meaningless

chipped corners
and scarred forelegs

like rain limps
dream trips

archive scatter
the black velvet
ghosts

the claws on cold
tile
make good shivers
while a moon
sharp as a shiv
shines through
the torn curtian
bright as a sliver

Porcelain vase
cold and alone.
Once filled with
life's water
now runs dry.

Shriveled petals
black edges formed
breaking from neglect.
Weeping tears of blood
with every snap.

Once upon a time
she had been beautiful,
stood out from all the rest.
So they chose her,
picked her from the pack...

A symbol of love
now faded
like her luster.
External beauty
has escaped.

Today’s great undead poets,
awash in the internet sea,
seek to fill the void of sensible emptiness
of our cyberspace world.
Following the heroic tradition of Man,
these daring individuals look to gain acceptance
through the expression of concepts.
Mirroring the virility and vitality of Life,
in defiance of critical naysayers,
the blankness of virtual paper
is scribbled upon with hurt, hope and ideals.
Writing styles and topics,
whether expressed in romanticized language

Seasonal changes in one's life.
give way to fresher encounters
all our lives
else life would have been
a monotonous rose
if it had no colors
nor variety
I suppose

the sun needs to show more worth
by giving nature a newer birth
and the rains ought to wash away
what you may call sin

the nudity,
stark nakedness autumn gives
must be once again recovered
as did Adam and Eve

so life's humanity and dignity
forever remains constant
yet not absolutely still

Cemetery gates
swing open wide.
Beckoning me
to step inside.

Rusted, wrought iron
hinges that squeak.
Through the veils
I amble,
unable to speak.

Yew trees bending
with wear and tear
on lifeless limbs
I float, unaware

Beaches thick with ash
wash away
as black waves
of memories crash!

With a halt,
my body comes to rest
a wooden box closes
upon my chest.

Beneath the ground
is now my home
until my spirit begins to roam....

I was the child

that made you old,

I was also the girl

that couldn't be told

I was a rogue wave

and couldnt see 'now,'

that was I cherished

I'll never know how

when you went away

without word or a sigh,

I was forever bereft

we didn't get a goodbye

over time I've painted

my pictures in words,

I cried out my heart

in the differing verbs

I wish I could harness

and saddle a star

and fly to your side

When the moon grows to a fullness
of tunnel's beckoning silver end
I move through many things I grow
to feel sweet feather kisses
of breathing darkness on my skin,

and down between tall rows of corn
and pungent onion scent I kneel
to reach beneath wide prickly leaves
and test with touch the ripeness of
the treasure of my summer squash.

you should have been
explorers all of you
and
shown the whole wide world
to blind folks
like us

sitting at the desk
tapping keys only
whereas we should go about
the corners of eternity ….

seeking our final destination
in peace ….
but all human beings are quietlylazy ….
mostly like me.

The Valley of the Kings; sleeps
Below the moons blind eye
Within its mask of stars

Stone steps decend
Beneath the sandstorm
Amist the tide of centuries

Temple carvings beckon the night
And dance between
Twilights grasp

Swirling ocean of sand
Unfurls its innumeral golden veil

Sheathing and unsheathing
The Valley of the Kings

ABOUT TREES AND OTHER THINGS

The weakest branches
dried by a harsh summer sun
began to crack and fall
with a silent thud
onto the deep snow below
turned blue - gray
under Winter's moonlit night
surrendering with quiet grace
to inevitability.