Pictures hanging on the wall,
Dead pictures,don't exist at all.
Filmy memories of times long gone.
Of a life lived too long,
And a young life taken by a gun.
By a man,her only one.
Her grave is now covered with cobwebs
The grass grows fresh and green.
But lying in her grave,her hair
Has lost its golden sheen.
She lays there silently,waiting
For someone to care.
But no one remembers her,
The world just isn't that fair.
All that's left are memories.
A plastered smile,on a plastered face,
In a plastered pose.
Memories hanging on a wall,
Dead pictures,don't exist at all.
 

Is there hope
For a world gone wrong?
Is there love
For a hippie song?
Where forests once grew,
Now smog pollutes our beauty.
Peace is a dream.
But we're awake.
We never realize
All life is at stake.
Do you love your killing,
The blood that comes?
The tears that fall
Down a child's face?
Do you laugh at us,
The makers of peace?
 Because we wish,hope and dream.
There's only a few left.
 But there's hope
 For a world gone wrong.
 There's still love
 For a hippie song.
 

    My Sweet Audrina
 Cowar in the corner
  And let it all be the way it was
  Before

   My Sweet Audrina
 Please remember
 These are only memories
 Things that happened
 Long ago

   My Sweet Audrina
 Please don't let
 The horrible things that happened
 In the past
 Be so

   My Sweet Audrina
 It's all up to you
 Don't let terrible memories
 Come true.

It's three o'clock in the morning
and I can't sleep
You were the last thing on my mind
and the first when I'm awake

Often I wonder
what would have happened
If I hadn't met you
My soul mate

Would I have settled
for any kind of love
Would I be happy
with that kind of emptiness

I see the way you look at me
I know what I see in you
A glance or a simple touch
It's all I really need sometimes

You make me laugh at myself
and see life in a different way
You opened up my eyes
and brought out the best in me

You have the compassion to hold me
when I need to cry
Yet you possess the wisdom
to let me make it on my own

You're my best friend
and when I need someone to talk to
I always come to you
and you're always there

I promise to be true to you
to cherish what we have
Two lost souls becoming one
You make my life complete

When I'm asked
why do I love you?
It's really simple
I just do
 

A stranger came into my life
whom I brushed aside
How dare this person intrude
I wanted to be alone

Day by day
I saw this face
A face I didn't recognize
a face of despair

Your expression gave nothing away
but the eyes told a different story
Out of touch but always wary
Something made me take notice

Cautiously, I opened the gate
Slowly, step by step you walked on through
I offered you food to give you strength
feeding your soul would come later

After awhile you started talking
I heard the pain in your voice
but I knew you were healing
you just needed someone to listen

One day your reflection
teased me by smiling
I turned to the sound of your voice
But you had vanished

Wondering how you got in
I looked again into the silvery glass
The face staring back was mine
and I knew you'd never come back

Mine deep slumber, at Aurora's debut
woken by the sound of feathered songs
entangled ballads of finch, sparrow and, starling
a solitary cry of a mourning dove.

Twilight alertness, supine consciousness
habitually reaching to refit the bed linen
but, finding the curved hind of my lover
she slowly stirs towards me, hushedly groping me.

Pressing in against me, as I draw her close
I feel the completeness of her bosom
calling to me, cooing me back
into a stupor of repose, drunken bliss.

Twilight slips into me again
knowing that she lies close to my heart
I need no covering, she warms me throughout
an answered coo' for first doves' cry.

Hearing it's mate, winging,
fluttering to his companion
they coo' together as wife and I berthing forth
deep slumbered peace I am in love.

        Day sets

        Again and again the sun spills her fury

        The long blemished hands of the years

        Wear their marks of caste    blood    belonging

 
        Sit on in the silence

        Feel the old friend breathe

        Rising to greet the dried voices, the

        Pictures framed in shadow    gold    dust

        That will fall like snow
 

        Night is sudden

        The pavements swept clear of people

        There is the stomach of the black to turn in
 

        and dream that rain beats on the windowboards
 

        on the brown stalks and

        sand graves of

        Three months withered flowers

 morning and evening shadows walk the cracked walls

 The thick chalk paint peels and

 the wooden window shutters split

 The hot season can coax voices from this house

 Open its broken binding like a book
 

 Read the histories thumbed on the pages of the rooms

 Angles corners rubbed soft loved yellow
 

 The arthritic bones of the ceiling beams
 
     ache above me
 

 and like the leaves not swept from the courtyard

 Time accumulates and drifts slowly

 
 Later I shall stalk my ancestors

 Draw up close under their sun beaten wrinkles
 

  Watch this black ink fix to their heavy frowns

 Before I close up the house

        I am carving a statue
 

        Age seated in her backyard
 
        tearing feathers off a live fowl
 

        I concentrate

        Climb into her hands

        Watch the red wart on her face rising

        The rock ridge of her nose

                Sharpen for the kill
 

        Blood

 
        but behind her eyes run

        other tides coasts

        This chisel sights follows

        Here the tails of whales are lashing the waters

        They shall be my statue.

        the cedar sways

        rain blots a petal of sand at my feet

        An ochre birthmark

 
        The image prints

        A white flesh rune

        in my freckle blue head

 
        At the roots of my fingers

        The knot stirs

        moves into the black thick fountainpen

        onto the page
 

        With this ink

        I irrigate my ochre children

 
        My cedar grows strong
 

        I shall carve it like a totem

A kind of a
grinning marquee
for the hay ride
going on below
at Hell Creek's rustic farm.

The smell of holding hands
as the silent wind grips on the skin
lightly romancing
and enticing the heart a little.

The bleacher limbs
upon losing
parts of their
pillow talk
in transition.

A kind of Peyton Place
from all
the chit chat
of chameleon green
visiting them daily.

Falling in a ballet
these retreating
leaves
of such
a honey-brandy
complexion
waver in the
night zephyr.

You know the one.

That seems
to be
getting its
orders from
the sparkling,
seasoned orb
sitting next to it.

You're transported
pronto
to an Autumn's
invitation of
the settling
of the senses.

Once a year
a posse
receiving its
direction
is gearing up,

to bathe you
in that
harvest moon light!

Unmasking
the true gusto
the hidden
zenith
of an admiring night.

Its smiling pearly
teeth
chewing on
with its meaning
the moon that is.

Getting down
to the center of its courting.

Without you........

I am incomplete
I am a snail without it's shell...
nothing to protect me
I am a fish out of water....
I cannot breathe
I am a child without it's mother....
no one to guide me
I am a student without a teacher....
no one to learn from
I am Juliet without Romeo....
no one to love me
I am Snow White without her prince....
no one to wake me from this slumber of lonliness I am in
I am a flower without the sun....
withering away

When i am without you, there is
no light in my eyes
and no music in my heart
I am a soul without a mate
When I am without you I am nothing....
I am nothing

I saw you looking in the mirror sideways
as though you could creep up on the image there
unawares, catching it off balance,
and in this way gain the advantage over what it has to say.
I watched you touching up the mirror's reply
with a little lie here and there, or a brief loss of memory,
or even a few minor additions.
In the mind, the picture is one of a great being.
In the mirror, the picture is one of a being,
who incidentally, is refusing to accept reality.

But it did give you a little confidence.
It after all reflected what you wanted,
or at least what you had come to pretend to be.
Artistic of you really, y'know – in its own small way.
Indeed what you saw was quite something – someone
"who looks life squarely in the face",
"who sees what is needed (or not needed), and does it well,"
etc., etc.

Come with me into the image reflector
and see what is really behind that picture of yours.
What lies underneath it all, the motivating force;
the power, the energy that drives you on, lies behind.
Come and look it over – and appreciate it.
Yet didn't lose your way on the unlit path,
or on the empty air, or the stale smell of disuse.
Don't bump into the rusty machinery slowly, noiselessly,
dissolving into the years.
Mind the ashes of the fire long gone out.

Then, turn sadly away – and ask yourself, helplessly, where you went wrong. And is there a way back to light those long dead fires, to put the machinery once more in motion? The mirror won't help you this time.

"Don't wait up for me"
You said as you paused at the door.
You blew me a kiss with your hand
As you had done many times before.

The door clicked shut.
Little was I to know that final sound
Was a portent of the future
That I would never get around.

The front door bell rang.
I wasn't expecting anyone. Was reading a book
The two policemen were very gentle,
"We just need you to come and have a look".

"The car didn't stop. It was weaving",
A bystander said as she cried.
"She was walking on the pavement."
She didn't feel a thing. She just died.

When I got back home
I made myself a strong sweet cup of tea
And sat there staring at the pages
Through eyes that couldn't see.

Asphalt
And silent, diagonal rain
Hard surface
And soft, silky splash
A communion of opposition
Gels my conflicting thoughts
A raging quench
To my firey mind

We walk together
My mind and I
As foggy purpose
And shades of doubt
Invade my soul
I fight back
With my newfound
Strength of contradiction

With these hands I
have held the most precious
human thing:

a fresh life gasping from  warm maternal waters

a self
realized in the cutting of a tether

crying
in the starkness of  the gravity-ladden air

From the one comes
the two
and
the two
ever long to
be one again
 
 

In God's imagination: a fertile plump infinity,
each soul a joke seeking to be cracked

He births each into a precisely planned deformity
with voice dry and face straight

And the Universe so laughs
at each new clever twist God puts
into his mudane assembly line job
of cramming priceless impecable vapor
into cheap flawed bottles;
that even God chuckles

Let us lie
in the cool grass
of an warm August night

And a soft blanket of stars  shall be all that covers us

The crickets shall sing  The trees shall sway  The moon shall blush  And only the evening  will know our secrets

(res(ent moons are for wishing, she told me

A new tiny rip in the sky letting
a just of light through is a (hance...for something

Day slips into her festive darkness...
Somewhere a ripe dream is sagging  and a gloved hope is rea(hing up  to plu(k