For a blanket to wrap
It's woven threads between us
For the sound of morning
To wake us from slumber
For our hands to meet halfway
In a gentle touch
To weave our bodies together
For a moment to gaze
At the art of our Creator
For a time to draw close
And shed the distance between
For a night of song
And a twilight of soul
For the wish of a moment
And the treasure of many
To bring us close again
I'd find any way

Left here in land of hill and peak,
where storms of sorrow slyly seek
to weary me and weigh me down:
I never chose this tortured town!

These song birds, blown upon the wing,
they squawk and sway, but rarely sing.
Since bleakness blinds them, blinds me too:
turns sapphire skies to black from blue.

Left here to age, while clouds race by,
I wait, as one by one they die:
those vestiges of youthful dreams
that seep away like sea-bound streams.

We adore the bees, for they bring us joy
Yet wasps, their kinfolk, get shear disdain
Everyone rejoices watching bees deploy
But assume that wasps bring nothing but pain
'Tis seldom asked "Is that indeed the case
That bees deliver flowers and honey
And wasps do nothing but assault your leg?"
After all, bees have still attacked my face
And left an unsightly wart on my knee
We pardon them for honey prized like nutmeg

Sometimes we talk about death
and all it has taken away. Maybe we'll find religion,

or look deeper into philosophy, or a similar comfort
to help us manage our grief and concern.

For now, we'll settle for what we have
together, among the here and now.

And maybe, just maybe this
will help keep the unknown at bay.

She’d lived all alone ever since her husband passed away,
Her kids were all grown up and had long since moved away…
She kept a bible by her bed which every night she read,
And she took to heart every word she knew that Jesus said…

She lived a simple life, she didn’t need too much,
She had friends who were kind and they always stayed in touch…
Eighty years had passed her by but she still had her health,
She considered that to be her most important wealth

He sings of phones and traveling,
a voice of loneliness and blues.
He sings and wishes desperately,
that he could be with you.

Those bars and stages all lit up,
still don't let you see,
the words he sings, in baritone,
he didn't get them free.

He's paid for each and every line,
with an aching, torn up heart.
He thought he wanted freedom,
he let his marriage fall apart.

Somewhere deep in Texas,
he let her get away.
She left without a word,
there was nothing more to say.

Two threads intertwined
Just to create a special mind
Clean and empty vacant spot
Built to make sure you thoroughly rot
Spacious area, room to grow
For a lot cheaper than it ought to go
Nice little path for a flower bed
An ex barber next door to shave your head

in no will I am named
To a birthright I have no claim
I rummage through the lives of man
Foraging from them what I can
Right from wrong it’s hard to tell
For I’m still holding the keys to hell

Call me guilty, I am not
Lock me up until I rot
You’ve viewed the past & still can’t see
Call me guilty & I shall be

The thread of life that keeps us sane
Is beginning to show signs of strain
Triggers released within our minds
Creating stutters & empty time

When asked a simple question
she becomes defensive and mean,
preferring to be hidden away
obscured, behind the scene.

When measured against the many
she feels inadequate and small,
striking out against her rivals
fear precedes her, ahead of her fall.

Wracked with strong emotions
she knows her stories are trite.
Naysayers beware of her vice...
Striking first, before the fight!

Winter looms near, another year has come and gone without you
I dread the shortest day, marking when I said my last farewell
Sometimes I still behold you in my dreams
Revisiting memories that once seemed so prosaic