Triplets Small Ones

Hello Archer

If I make any comment,
Perhaps you'll ask
The Arrower,
To shoot me
Out of this tent,
So I shall for a while
Remain silent,
Tis OK Steve!

Seasonal Poet

Songbird has said it all
I would like to make
Just a slight change,
In place of seasonal
I wish to say,
Seasoned Poet,
If I may
Amidst the density of
Wikis Laureates

here we lie
in summit hopes
and in deep shade
the valley want
sullen and reposed
while we flicker
in sunlight beams

I taste the cool
of the creek
from glacial
spent

this soul I inhabit
ringing like a chime
in paint ruined rooms
the windows cracked

are we rust on the hinges
we travelled so far
in this mirage understanding

Entity of the night
Make thy self be known
Are you from the underworld
Or of human
Flesh and bone

Phantom of the dark
What is it you seek
To prey upon a living soul
Or another’s life
To store in your keep

Weaving dreams of
Shadowed lies
Guiding the hands that write
Of love and tombs and
Flowers left to die

There's a calm before the storm
You are here to do me harm
Try as you might
It will all be in vain
Yet I know that I will
Weather the pain

There's no more shame
in this modern whirlwind
tomorrow forgets our stumbles
too readily, for those who choose
to ignore I'm standing.

Teetering on the edge of disaster
heart beats loud in my ear pounding
quick and even faster,

Gazing down from the brink
of the ever after, just a few hundred
feet and the agony will cease.

Turning about-face can no longer
look at the point of my demise,
from where the crushing limbs of
the sea will soon taste my bile.

She stands on the corner, outlined in the rain
Hikes her skirt at passing cars
and tries to hide her shame

Never thought she'd be a whore, sell her body to the night
Now, the need for a fix again
leaves no strength to fight

The yellow headlights of the cars, offer warmth, an easy mark
The motel room smells dirty
but at least it's dark

Feel the golden glow, the push of ecstasy
She looks into the dresser mirror
says; " It's not really me"

there were the bones of us
damp impressions
left wild-eyed on still-warm bedsheets

we lay scattered throughout the
day
and rehearsed four-cornered vows in the
silence of immediacy

we didn't know what to say then
and we don't know now

but the sky is blue today and there
is magic when poems are air-brushed
by unseen hands, heard as falling rain
on cobblestone by some, felt like the
melancholy of dying stars
by others

Yo Yo Ma draws his bow,

Oh what a day,
To live as we are living,
Oh what a day,
To be as we are here,

Oh what a day,
To see what we are seeing,
Oh what a day,
To shed a lonesome tear,

And oh what a day, this day, this day of beauty,
And oh what a day to have it as we do,

Yet nought of my fear, my fear at what I’m doing,
Has ever marred the sight, the sight, my love, that’s you,

And even though I know, my heart is surely aching,
Even though I have, but moments left to spare,

.
opinion speaks loudly
wisdom bites off its tongue

I love you more than moonlight
Shining on a dark night
More than sunlight
Peeking through treetops

I love you more than rain
Falling on a hot day
More than shade
Blocking the heat wave

I love you more
Walking the strand
Smooching by the starlight
This humid summer night

I was born to a family of Arrowak Indians.
My grandfather was the village Chief and a warrior.
I remember,
when I was a young child of about seven years of age..
My grandfather LeLe taught me the ways of the earth,
for he did not know any other God, even though the puritans tried.
He could not recognize a God, he could not see or touch.
He would say to me,
"The earth gives us everything we need to survive, and we in turn
must give back to the earth. because in the end it is to where we return."