The scenery blusters by up close
and in the distance, the hills are but walls
and neither adds nor subtracts from anticipation.

The destination always receives “top billing”
however, commaderie with one’s companions…
and the destination pale in it’s comparison to, the journey.

Color my eyes with landscapes a plenty…
buffer my personality with yours,
and let’s augment the wait and duration with that of a kaleidoscope;

for we, and we alone own the hours,
our moments in waiting
to arrive “fresh”, into the future.

Let me see with the eyes of an owl
and hear like an elephant,
fly with the ever soaring eagle
with no voice to scream, that I can’t.

Let me see details with the eyes of a painter
and may I hear with both ears, musical,
can I please be the one to touch passionately
sharing why my heart’s so full.

Let me love with the heart of a mother
may my eyes reflect light from above,
blind me to the differences of another
so that I may truly glimpse love.

Just to hold a pebble
quietly, in my hand

may not seem important
‘less one was stuck in sand.

How important a conversation
if one was all alone,

without replies or feedback
one would stir to quest, his own.

Just to see a child's eyes, razzle
Because of the butterfly on her hand !

it’s remarkable for what one yearns
no one could ever understand.

Just to hold a pebble
because you handed it to me,

we’ll forever share that moment, rare
individually for eternity.

A naked tree bends in the breeze
A lonely leaf falls to the ground
It shudders in the winter wind
The December roar is the only sound

The bitter cold is unrelenting
A cloudy sky looms overhead
The dirt is frozen, hard and stiff
What was once alive has now been dead

The darkness settles like a knife
It tears the day apart
The streets are empty this time of night
The fields are barren like my heart

I came to touch my world,
the things I used to feel,
but no intimacy's found,
nothing today feels real.

Not the aroma of mom's cookies,
nor the freshness of the dew
came this morning to me.
Nothing this day smells true.

My eye, once caught the colors
of the rainbow painting the sea,
see none today to wash
my flowers, the grass and the tree.

I'd hear the whisper of the land
the happy chirps of the bird.
I heard the unspoken words,
but all those sounds today fade.

I did feel the Widow Solstice
take leave her throne last night,

nay, I was right when I said "feel"
for it weren't from sound or sight;

I took leave of my own senses to check my plight.

Running past me into the desert cold
her wake echoed a haunted tune,

'twas but an overture from the score, in parts
she was more concerned with lassoing the moon;

for a lamp, to play the whole piece for a loon..

The Widow Solstice's musical prowess
didn't exist, so she'd merely pretend,

Burying my own wants under some man’s
keeping them locked away
but there still there, never go astray
lurking in the shadows of my mind

Raising their head now and then
but smothered by his needs
pandering to his whim
nothing matters but him

That was before I discovered self-esteem
realised I can chase my own dream
knowledge makes me feel supreme
grinning like the cat that got the cream

What was a joy,
'twas once a toy,
a clever tool used for amusement;

was but a lark,
but then the bark,
began falling on the pavement.

Vulnerable outside,
gave a glimpse inside,
what was a bag of tricks;

other methods used,
unbalanced, and confused;
now I've much more wax than wicks.

At times amazed,
sometimes unfazed,
tree's branches bend, and relax;

the roots are deep,
but the grades more steep,
the leaves on the ground hide the tracks.

The door to December
She hastens her breath

bringing popsicle cobwebs
that remind me of death;

and the fiddler, he plays by the tree,
Her breath an iced cold legacy.

This door to December
whistles a crepe hanging breeze

Her breath quickly killing
the branches off trees;

the fiddler sought street lamps to see,
perchancing a crowd's company.

That door to December
Solstice shuts in the end

She quickbolts both locks
locking out Her last friend;

I like the slow quiet of a foggy night
and the wailing of a distant train
or the putt-a-putt of a single engine plane
loping across the sky

sounds that propel me into a fantaisie noir
not unlike an hypnotic chicken clucker at a cheap carny show

a gritty, tough, iron jawed
double-breasted shoulder holstered
man on the run

"you'll never take me alive" I snarl

the sound of my voice
snaps me back to my ordinary messes
...but, at least I'm still breathing

and wondering