I know how love has
etched itself into creases of a single night

when we wrote poetry with trembles
and sighs
and sang together in harmony
of heaving hips

above us
the moon spun
stars crumbled
and color was born

as awakening pressed yellow
against thin skin of my eyes
I found myself alone
again

only the shape of you lingered
sculpted in empty wrinkles
between silk sheets

we were down with it the other day
and i bit on a bit of cracked pepper
scrubbing linoleum tiles
doing my Hungarian sadhana
anger and heat mixing with
cold realities

no violins play where no one
dances

blue and red are primary colours
that sing with ruffled feathers
and spilled milk
we laugh
at ourselves
like children with dirty faces
and scraped knees, angels with nothing
up our sleeves

passion is a trembling shell
we put to our ears
and night rolls away the stars.

.

Bluebirds sing
A melodious wakeup call
A familiar scent in the room
Your presence

Freshly brewed tea
The warmth of the sun
Freshness of spring
The beauty of our garden

If I could see it all
Satiate my void
Perhaps
I would be happier.

who can tell if
together we will be
better than the first taste of
new season avocados
seen on hills
above sills of windows
where we lay
in mourning

When I think of you,
a flood of pleasures
flow gently
on rivers in my mind

The memories
we have made together
out last all other life's
which I have lived.

Everything else
is just faded dreams
dissipating like
morning mist on the bays

I live in the present
enjoying each moment
as treasures long searched
with no value outside
our secret realm

Poor ventilation, shadows like ghost
In full light of day, corners covered
Concealed places for roaches and rats
Bugs, fever, sickbay, sometime death
Theses dark places, let there be light

The mind, like umbrella shot in the rain
Eyes, unprotected, become blurred by showers
Ignorance, superstition in dark slanted caves
Impede progress and deter development

Canto Four ~ It is Crone’s Day and Gundhag’s dead carts arrive at the bastions of Garland Legion on the southeast wall of the capital city of Laurá Luné.
She carries with her the infant boy wrapped in rags. The wounded men upon the carts are in greater number than is her custom in bringing to the details of healers that now pour forth from the walls of Garland Command, the largest and chief of legions in the empire. It would appear she makes a point.

how could i not love may
the month that i was born in
the jacaranda's in full bloom
lovely weather's here again

the french marigolds i planted
are growing taller everyday
i can't wait until they're blooming
they'll make such lovely bouquets

there's no better month to have
been born in is what i say
when nature's at it's most beautiful
how could i not love may

Should life send you wandering
out, and about at twilighttime,

your world could change immediatly
or stop cold, on a dime.

that pathway, that one chooses
will be a lesson learned,

one road will be less travelled
the other, you'll get burned.

Should this twilight force hit you
I can't emphasise, enough;

you're going to pay profusely
for your demons in the rough.

What you have to offer
gets split into two ways,

I know the day will come around,
not long after I have gone away,
notebooks like this one will be found
hand written poems I penned one day.

Maybe a grandchild or a son
going through a closet or a trunk
will by mere chance then come upon
plain rhyming verse among the junk.

Will they pause to read them all
or peruse even just a few?
maybe they'll read "Winter's Call"
and think some others worth a view.