a whisper turns to a thought

the erasure of time has made my limbs blind. i stumble in the grass. how is it that i cant find the way home as easily as i used to. has old age begun to strangle me. dew on the grass has been my undoing. like a squirrel that reaches through the bottom of a nest and steals the eggs from the mother starling. nature stops me in my tracks. feeling and knowing the same now as i see clearly what i have come to. a smiling old man who loves his life for all it has become.

a rainbow
e x p l o d e s
through the fog

Most likely will never be ‘published’!

faceless killers

we never see them coming. they are the unseen merchants of the death of good ideas. those critics that live in your brain. you cant get rid of them. they are you. they dont think like you do and they detest your wild mind. you can with some work push them away. at least for a short time.

with no remorse
i make myself disappear
into a poem

Most likely will never be ‘published’!

a beacon written away

the old lighthouse is dark now. a ghost light appears on some holidays. most likely kids shining a flashlight beam at the top of the light for the tourists. the metallic ring of a bell in the harbor and the light disappears. a hundred and seventy five years ago the ghost was flesh and blood. the face of the old keeper looks lost now. a statue is all he is. the oil house is gone and there is nothing left to do.

longings
the way a ships lights
blink in a storm

Most likely will never be ‘published’!

a living statue of goodness

some people are hard to be friends with. they are so much more than that. inspiration has no value it is truly priceless.

a guitar solo
says it all
a wail into the one

Most likely will never be published!

drunk and reading the poems of others

poets can wrap their hands around your naked heart from thousands of miles away. across the atlantic i touch the pain of another.

it seems
like a week ago
that i cried this hard

modus operandi

when i do die and not soon i hope i want people to say ‘who was he anyway’. the only way your sins can be buried is if your kindnesses are also forgotten. maybe it is just me but the living need to live their own lives and any memories of me tend to weaken not enhance any influence i had on them. while i live dont hate me dont love me just be with me.

pulling petals
off daisies
i forget why

in between a thousand sighs

taking a break from self pity. i light a cigar and sip a 16 year old scotch.

tail
on the ground
a dragon kite
mocks
my buddha nature