after months
you are still
in folds of sweaters

the one i bought
along with your cap

yesterday i smelled of you
because you are in the color blue

i hope my memory
stays clear like
the hot springs

how perfect
is beauty when
seen through the eyes of

someone you loved

we walk together on friday nights
under a swirl of wet leaves
clinging
to unclothed limbs and faces long and lonely.
there's a round puddle
where our rain boots make waves for the boat
some child of eight left behind.
here and again we eye the miles of fences
and the NO TRESPASSING signs
nailed on wood or vinyl with a splash of red.
our footsteps wind around the corridor
where a group of strangers
smoke pipes
string violins for the nightingales
and recite unwanted haiku to the march moon.

The image in my mind of you
is different from my heart,
never planned to seek the likes of one
whose mind was faliing apart.

For surely even you can see
I'd never make that choice,
unless you couldn't hear me
like I didn't have a voice.

At any rate I realize
you may not share my view,
but I just cannot fathom
living with the likes of you!

Because that isn't living
the living don't give up,
I apologize for wanting
more than water in my cup.

the man who is my neighbour
draws mouthfuls of tobacco
from curved stem of his pipe
the curve cools the smoke
he smiles and the puff is
beautiful; an aura around his head
i think of my grandmother in her chair
laugh out loud at the molecules that
held her together for ninety seven years
she was once a little girl who
kissed a boy for the first time

i am also amazed that distance
equals rate, times, time and am
dumb-struck by the square root
of minus one

Streaks of fire fly through the night
Cool hands of wind run through my hair
I exalt in breathless flight
Man and motor growl through the air

Cold machine, with hot beating heart
You send a chill to my inside
I get a thrill each time we start
We need a twisted road to ride

Let's ride this road of pleasure
Fast, and faster still
Let's take each other's measure
Until we've had our fill

he predicted it,
the way seismologists can
with tremors of the earth.
he predicted she would leave
and wouldn't excuse it
or write him words to weep with,
she would simply disappear
the same way she arrived

he will drink her away,
find some small corner,
sit and face remorse
in a smudged, dirty glass
and he won't stop
until the feeling dies

or he does

The sun lights the darkness,
The rain cleanses the earth,
As we too make the journey,
With death there is birth.
Bitter sweet memories,
Unfinished dreams,
Incomplete promises,
Life just seems cruel and mean.
It does not matter their age,
It is hard to let go,
Knowing as you hold their hand,
No longer does energy flow.
But somewhere out there they have a purpose,
In that we must trust,
They were needed elsewhere,
Not condemned to just dust.
Maybe a new angel,
Was needed in the sky,

i'd heard
it spoken
how he
hated stars
and frivolous
things

and lazy
sundays
old dogs
with
older men
who sat
in parks
smoking
talking with
young children,
imparted wisdom

he never
in his existence
conversed
with god,
with strangers,
with her

they said
if you met
he'd inspire you
and you would
cut out stars,
drag down
the moon
and live
in the suns shadow

there are times i wish
you weren't so literal.
when you didn't
become the coroner,
the forensic doctor
and slice into your flesh
and dig around for it

for the words, the poems,
the entrails of phrases
and make them seem
such a hopeless lot.
the type you would
sign off deaths,
with a definitive
'yeah this one
was never saveable'

.

.

CHOICE

At this psychological moment,