Click click clack clack
Asleep lay back
You race on through time
Over cold iron track.
Click click clack clack
As wild dreams attack
Your tortured soul
There is no going back.
Click click clack clack
Let the darkness like flack
Brighten the moon
That reflects on cold track.
Click click clack clack
As we tear up the track
Over points that divert
With no going back.
Click click clack clack
No use to look back
Your ticket was bought
At your birth way back.

Shaking. Trembling.
on the edge of the branch
dancing in the wind.
quickly, then slowly,
moving sensuously
in time with the motions.
So graceful.
So gentle.
They move rhythmically
in gentle waves.
Holding on tight
to the branches.
Clinging to the
trunks so strong
and sturdy.
Structures made by the beauty of nature.

Can I see a flicker of light here?
I had seen a gloomy dark cloud
Walking in the passage of time.
If I could see cloud filaments,
I shall be resonated with a new hope.

When alive colorful turns of phrases
uttered courtesy my father or mother
whose ability to describe a situation
perfectly verbalized and couched by
a dialect of High German including
some Hebrew and other words now
embolden me - a sexagenarian poet
to embark upon quest shunning aim
buzzfeeding insatiable avocation to
acquire fluency communicating the
tongue spoken by Ashkenazi Jews -
which Semitic peoples populated a
thick trunk line of mine, and crisis
of identity and existentialism rents

Humble steps I take,
All fear left in my wake,
In the poolside
By the lake.

Joyful visions fill my mind,
With every step to peace,
Eradicates the hatred,
So unkindness leaves.

Proud trees flank this path,
Branches canes for the weary.
And the birds trill,
As contagious as a grin.

Mocking the shadows,
That darkens heart's terrain.
But to turn it around,
Sees our righteous gain.

She was a seasonal beast who slept through the summer;
I checked pockets and sleeves to flesh out a drama
and discovered that she hadn’t any clothes.

As each winter yawned she stretched and then started
to rewrite A History of The Antarctic
in twenty-seven different types of snows.

On our French rendezvous she performed ingénue
insisting that Seamus can rhyme with Camus
and poetry be chiselled out of prose.

I never sought out drama
or pain
or anxiety
but they came my way.
I never wanted to make a scene
or proclaim
that I was broken,
but eventually I had to.

I was descending,
drowning
in the darkest of my thoughts
and I needed a lifeline.
I sought out that lifeline,
and a type of therapy
that lifted me out of
the hole
I found myself in.

The result-
amazing,
astounding,
uplifting
and it saved me
and gave me hope.

Will I address that dream where you awake
within the veil between this world and sleep
where echoes pass like voices on a lake
familiar as unmemories running deep

From here, concealed in fog, we watched you fawn
Your visit most intriguing; like a child's
Your eyes so ever slightly slit and drawn
in want of rest from perils of the wilds

Your breath is in the breeze where children play
what sweet perfume came drifting in your call
Believe this is a place not far away
and let you gaze in wonder of it all

A heavy blanket of emotion
Smothers me
I'm left in fragments
Of shattered moments
Hanging on, lost in solitary days

I'm free at last, yes, free I am,
Like all free hymns and those that rhyme.
My words take flight—in worlds sublime,
Ahead of time, ahead of time.

I'm free at last, who dares say no?
Who would halt my river's flow?
My dreams come true today to show
Freedom—aglow, freedom—aglow.

"I'm free," written on every line;
Each step taken, a light to shine.
Freedom, pristine, holy, divine.
Free Palestine, free Palestine.