Spring has arrived, or so I think.
Tap water's yellow from the sink.
Again I smell that barnyard stink.

The snow is melting extra fast.
The sterile white of winter's past.
With no more icy north wind's blast.

I like springtime but I confess,
Sometimes it brings me extra stress.
My yard is such a muddy mess.

I almost hate to go outdoors.
It seems I have so many chores.
The mud gets tracked in on the floors.

Quiet in the darkness of the forest
Evening - golden mare - tells her story.
Shadows scattered, moon invited over.
Crimson leaves like tired vagrants
Lying on the forest floor and snoring.

I am sitting by the fire listening to music.
Music of the melting in the kettle snow,
Music of the burning days and crackling
Joints of skinny trunks and branches.

Happy solitude of dreaming...

I had a dream one night,
That all had seen the light;
Lift your Vail and see the universal field,
With understanding the truth is revealed;
All secrets within are locked inside,
And the closed minded ones are full of pride;
Wisdom is a search that can not be found,
Do we really stand on solid ground?
Searching for answers,first find the questions,
Still reaching no revelation;
In this time warp we stay,
As our minds run away.

Sometimes at night when sleep won't come
and eyes burn red from lack of rest
in small hours I almost feel numb
as heart beats tired in my old chest.

Is it imagination that I see,
this chair, these walls, even this pen,
all of what's surrounding me
and things to which I must attend?

Or, perhaps it being night
all of this is just a dream
which will end at dawn's first light
when the fogs rise up like steam.

The poet's eyes spin counterclockwise, angel chaff,
mercurial orbs. In brightest noon's day, protean on
soft, crooning nights where his mantle is held. Oneiric,
chainless, the green marshes ill with laudanum flakes;
he is a pulse kissed star, beyond Prometheus, perforate
in exhausting sight. The scribe should be a bodiless brew,
unrelenting in pursuit of what no cherub can exactly say.
Or he must inhale the grim shadow of reality's oblong face;
all the hothouse, all the indexed pages, all tea stained smiles

Flora and fauna
beauty in diversity
don't discriminate-

I like the mystery of spring
transparent veil of leaves and lines
the only time when I can see
the glints of sunny daffodils,
the mist of sleepy melted ground.
I like the mystery of spring
when screeching of the geese returns
with children laughter on playground,
when boiling moss wins over frost,
new grass, new secrets, hopes and love
in green rotating gyre drown.

With luck of dice we met one night
and wined and dined within our eyes
then played a game of snakes and ladders
on the board of our naked hide

it was a win win game with nothing to hide
full of frolic and playful fun
the play went on till the clock struck one
then it was time to shed inhibitions

she wore her charm with a naughty smile
and a "come on" look in her dreamy eyes
I swept my eyes all over her form
not sure where I should begin

He was a bird man,
wearing airborne freedom,
flying open skies,
hearing spirit cries.

Father told him,
listen to the wind.
Pay attention
to the season,

four different kinds.
Look for signs
don't listen to the "raven"
for he mimics "man".

Listen to the wind,
let it take you in,
take flight "White Eagleman",
soar like you can.

Over the landscape of being,
canyons never seen,
over frustration mountains,
and good day fountains.