I feel the changes
The coolness
Damp breezes
Flowing in waves
The future holds us
As does the now
As yesterday is let go

There in the distance
We feel the winters touch
Yet what's this I hear
Across the mountains
Whispered by the streams.
Even a sailing leaf
I see it touch your hand.

Spiritual What!
To my mind…
there is nothing spiritual in living life ….
all is mundane
and
each one has one’s own frame,,,
to dwell in happiness or pain …
some love to within a cocoon remain….
passed life's living vein

whilst others brave the storms…
of the those who wont to slain ….
but within senses and distance remain…
spiritualism thus beyond life …
in imagination should…
as it does and must remain…

There are gaps in heaven,
empty voids of godlessness
through which almost-angels fall
through arcs of feathers swirling
in slow spirals of building sin;
their ends are fissures rent in hell
filled with almost-demons rising up
on wafts of kindness and respite.

In the space between are mortals,
frail lives of narrow frenzies
caught by shifting moral webs
of goodness and depravity,
our prayers and curses fought over
by those above us and below
like starving jackals hungering.

Bent
existentialism
like a fender crushed
an impact
shook off

lift the volume
inhale a drone
a dearth of muse
bequeath the pallid
stickiness of a sickness
crawling
up the bones
like a lightning
strike far off
and distance
lit diffused
like a hot sucked
cigarette
caught on
the ledge of a sneer
dangerous and
loose
worn
and travelled
the colour
of gravel
in hair slept
on leather

I sped at all haste as you called my name
There in the sunrise your form came to me
It called out in colours that spoke in the quiet
The early morning rose, it started to bloom.

Creating a light of its own a word of life to come
I stood in awe of the beauty of its talking colours
Stand for me tall, it soothed as the rose opened
It showered my soul with abundant healing rays

bunch of feats
dripping dither
petals soft as a winter feather

hushed like a hot flames lash
tender as black wax
and red silk solitude
fallen crumpled
silent as a stream
a crowd

the shadow crept
to curl
stirred
in its flight
a logic flash
like a wish
lost
and dreaming

and you bend
me
my flexible
ache
sutured
to the break
the blood
and bones
these sticks
these stones
slick now
with rains
before the blows

Who would promise a flourishing garden
that is barren and poor with no womb?
With no food or a plough it would harden
the attempt to attain what might bloom.

Who'd be raising the child; that's the voice
of the future, genteel, and true stone,
if his parents do not care with a choice
of upbringing his manhood with hone?

That's the verse with no rhythm or rhyme,
with no thoughts to evoke or to bliss
or emotion to shake-that's sublime
it won't awe or invoke, it's amiss.

Trying a dactylic verse on a blank page
driving a fool to a desperate act of rage
fearfully referencing Webster
knowing this form he'll never master

Yes, really happy,
Gratuitous, unearned happiness
Yes I am happy.

It shakes me to my core
Perhaps frisson or tremble is a better word

It is rare
It is precious
I am delighted

And…
Above all
Perhaps the perfect thing,

I don’t fear its inevitable ending.

The mirror........
You stand right before me
in admiration
of self emulated beauty
the giggle is spontaneous
and
genuine
then you break down into a seeming reunion
now you dance
after a refreshing perfumed prance
let your towel fall
without a trace of wrath
then you laugh,
loud
the world may hear
as you are seemingly calling
for your loved one
oh my dear

finally through life’s magnetic trance
you wander
and
mindlessly ballet dance