Bury me
beneath the apple tree
I grew from seed.

The digits, that reached you
Behind a strip of red
Hiding, just as you
Lifeless.
The end, unwritten,
In one last cold breath.

Perhaps, your greatest trick
Was convincing me
That you never existed at all?

I remember
Alone in an alien town, with you
Drenched in one another’s tones
Your eyes, filled with affection
Mine overflowing with longing
A breakfast we will never forget
An evening we can’t help but remember

This garden was so well begun
fresh ground broken fine and deep
beneath a free and warming sun
after winter's dark cold sleep

Laid out with a studied eye
each seed planted in it's perfect row
fertilized beneath an azure sky
a few storms, and it began to grow

Each sprout came up green and strong
unmarred by either storm or pest
thinking nothing could go wrong
we decided it was time to rest

Each musician plays their instrument
with fellow prodigies, one can bet;

when the "gig" does finally, get underway
he's not focusing on the music in each set.

What this minstrel quietly contemplates
isn't the forty-five minutes he's, played;

what really stands out in his "first mind"
is what's owed to him, after the music's been made.

You see, out of each, and every hour
fifteen minutes are his own,

In the frolic of
folly i amaze
into metaphorical mystery
i gaze.
Stark naked eyes
unknowing
the blank.
A mysery self-wrought
in the brooks
and
woods walked.
Then the last breath
shall surge
half in half out.
My soul if i have one
may submerge
In the glorification
of time
I thought
was once only mine..

brown stains on freshly-mowed grass
death comes mourning,
to others
the gift of light receding
earth-roots tapping
less the water

replicating patterns of beauty
in near-death experiences
we hold what is dear close to old visions
scattering prisms of hope
and hope
love will find a way.

There's something that is a really changing
and that, can also heal a broken heart,

some days, it's a moving tediously slow
other days, it'll tell you, you can't start.

Seems like folks are always running out of it
and, there's even an iced cold, Miller one,

it folds, and melds into some sort, of a kind of a table
yet, had to create different zones so we could get things done.

It's only but an increment of measure
but claims, all along to be on your side;

We walked into the darkness
Blinding the bestowed gift

People fell before our sides
And yet, cold blood is what it was

Only the wretched hope
Laid within our bloody grasp

The once ideal promise
Captivated our fragile hearts

Nevertheless, all decays
Into that tale told in the past

Life leaks its own hidden wounds
Never knowing if we’ll return

A good man,
a kindly man,
a good neighbour.

He's been a drover and a banker,
imagine that!
The stories he can tell,
of aborigines singing the cattle to sleep at night,
of his bush mates
singing and telling their ballads by firelight.

I showed him my poem
"Time goes round in a straight line"

You are absolutely right,
The soldier’s plight
After they fight,
They are left out
In the twilight

Suddenly,
Even out of politician’s sight
Because might is right,
And
The soldier isn't able
To exercise his voice.