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laid like a weavers magic
there are lines of us
reaching up
and arms across
tabletops and bedsheets
sands of summer
warmed with bitter blue haze

and storm fed skies
fat with dusk and thunderheads
dancing with light

and tonight in the ghost of
lonliness I chase the old
songs of us
around we go dipping into sunshine
and cool shade

a forest trail walk we talk
in heady pine fallow carpets
and dusty wind
Tannic falls gathering its voice

snow falls now collecting at
the door Covering the welcome
mat the plastic animal
covering my footsteps to the
coffee house

sit and scrawl my mythic words
searching in all the in between
being of now and then
thick like snowflakes
the down of heaven
soft as satin in a cherry

soft as the soil
come spring
when all things are
given to skies full
of promise

the tears of prosperous

Editing stage: 


I find this one too muddled for me to understand,
or to find any thread in the weave of it.

Rampant, the lion of heraldry its paws held high,
the talons out, the mane thrown back and pride omnipotent.

The title is fine it excited me alone!!

"The image of yourself which you see in a mirror Is dead,
but the reflection of the moon on water, lives." Kenzan.

Muddled and puddle held
stillness in its sturdy plan
the murky stir

Will keep writing
something will make sense

Thank You Ann

author comment

Passing through, my friend. Not muddled, Anni, Each stanza creates lightening imagery with wonderful metaphors. You push language to breaking, Steven. One must see the whole with its separate parts, like a mosaic.


rising like trees, feilds of wheat..
and grasses bent in winds..vines reaching.
Laying back and watching clouds on a dock
in a park, or walking paths in city parks
dirt roads and avenues..lines of thought
like tracer rounds rising from the deep
of memories well..

"weavers magic" god, great spirit, fate, luck
karma etc directing us to meet, to break from
our routes our roads//

Thunderhead summers// everyone remembers
where they were Whom they were with in this line..

ghost of lonliness..Songs evoke so much for us
records cds I tunes and radio..records go around,
Merry go rounds, cd's I dont I tunes do but they
do cycle through songs..

I know the hot summer walks to sit by the falls
and get rejuvenated. The hot pine needle smell
and dust from the many hikers. The falls
cascading over the rock ledge, its voice talking.

and in winter..summer seasons welcome mat obscured
with snow and ice and the resin figurings still out
there as I head to coffee shop for warmth now
not air conditioning to write my memory clips in
notebooks To see the sun set through the trees
not at their tops thinking of summer spring
fall past..

winter makes me think of Internment for spring
the satin soft linning and the cherry finish
of the caskets, the gathering of the "tribe"

spring burial or planting of seeds for the
summer growing period Or return to the earth
as dust always the skies full of rain or cold
or sunshine Portents for memory

"Tears of prosperous salvations"

hope for the best for those departed
those in memory For the flowers
sown or garden dug in and tended
Prayers for those who may have
been ill or souls troubled and
unrest Let them Be at ease
not lessened

thats what I was thinking when I
was putting this together

thank you Geremia!

author comment

hope for the best for those departed
those in memory For the flowers
sown or garden dug in and tended
Prayers for those who may have
been ill or souls troubled and
unrest Let them Be at ease
not lessened

As I approach the "inevitable" I think of this often. You are true humanist, Steven.

Christus tecum,


I read books on empathy and the extreme of humanistic range
I do not see us as animals amongst the beauty of ruins to be..
sometimes the reverse...But I have tended gardens where the
dogs sleep and the ashs of the lost were kept
be they wild weeds or manicured proper
there is sacred want to thoughts in a moment to reflect
To give prayers

we compromise our souls by choice sometimes
our health becomes compromised
and we are from king to pawn in so few moves
I will pray for you Joe
and I know when I'm gone or to go there
will be prayers for me/

Neanderthals collected flowers for their dead
and fed their broken boned kin from dig evidence
I was fed fairytales where we were instructed in
good and evil beauty and corruption
character and fate. and Sunday mornings the bible
teachings in Sunday school
Part of me runs with an animal logic
and part of me believes in the humanistic
ideals of betterment
Kind of like the point of a clovishead
we have our portion of purpose
and the rest of the density is our
velocity of fate
Our path that flows and interacts
with so many

I fear not death
but the unknown
for I feel the past
behind me like
a whirlwind
a throne of motion
I am to leave

And I remonstrate
to wonder
"Did I take enough?"
"Did I leave enough?"

a steadiness
a readiness will guide
me in daybreak arrival
in nights quiet revery
an afternoon
in the glade of transparent
quise as I slip from
my humanity
with falling breaths

author comment

Yes, Sreven, that is what its all about as mysterious an d incomprehensible as the Holy Trinity--and God Himself, if HE is still alive,


God is In
I remember those old signs too
I feel God about
people wonder
I dont
after all this time
watching sitting with people
struggling in addictions
depression loss and joy
I never really thought there
was nothing

I just dont acess him
I savour a lot of things
connections like the expecially
and thats selfish
like a piano kept locked
whats the point
a journal never written in
its that dialogue that music
that interchange thats Life
Love passion growth

for me God Is alive and IN
ha ha

Thanks Joe

author comment

God is either dead or hiding for the mess He made of creation.If there is a true Power and Divinity it is in the Christ and in us, The silence of death resounds echoes in the universe, A life stiops in less than a second. Then where does the love grow.

Thought provoking coomments you write, Steven

I don't want to interrupt, but I needed to tell you how impressed I am with your proofreading. I'm sorry, I know it's a silly thing, but it's one of my common suggestions. It's a kick to read a poem where every word is how the poet wanted me to see the poem. Oh, and the poem is intense. wesley

W. H. Snow

A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds. Percy Bysshe Shelley

Learn how, teach others.
The NeoPoet Mentor Program

My daughter is good at this//(Birth)
(Step is also good in scenic harmonies)

I love movies too along with Poetry
and these are basic sketchs each
paragraph a thought window of course
Not describing how to make a cake.
Although that can be poetic too!!

Maybe I should take up movie making
as everyone on U Tube is doing this
and doing a great job of it

Maybe when Im ready to leave poetry
writing...but in the meantime
IM here

where else is there???

author comment

Esker, you are a profile in courage, the poetic muse is born and reborn in you as your writings.

I can only appreciate your mastery of the mystery.


"mastery of the mystery" t.his is perfect, my Anna, for this master poet.


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