In the seven thousand languages
Each has a word for tree and cloud.
But what of the shadows from the leaves
That make an intricate pattern on our path,
Or the fantastic creatures we invent
As the clouds shape shift before us,
Or the clusters of stars that haunt the sky
With the faces of our ancestors?

Someone once told me I struggle with titles;
this person their persona they share with me.

As if such a thing could ever have mattered
when in this sea of pink-tinged flesh,
this cacophony of bodies all bustling for first
that surround us,
become us,
that is us,
at heart,
or so, seemingly, they'd like to jest.

For the youth have been showered in rose-petal graveyards,
and today, that youth, is me.

So our souls, we hold, like faux-precious stones
to the sun
to see if they'll glimmer.

You appreciate poetry
all is mostly imagery
we all know it
and shall always create
some more similar ones

not only about sadness
but not gloom alone
also of happiness
we all need to survive today
to face a tomorrow
that will come our way
only as another today

so be happy poetry
is just an emotion
we pass our time mainly
and we entertain mostly

autumn has now set in
it soon will be history

I stared out the window
My brain, completely disengaged
No thoughts, no emotions
But a war was being waged

I could not move or even think
Stood lifeless, as I gazed
But, inside my brain
This awful darkness lazed

Outside the window, light
It seemed so warm and pure
Still, inside my muddied head
A madness did me lure

I could not raise my voice
Could not, say a word
That evil’s lock on me
Seemed to be assured

There will come that time, I know,
and it grows nearer every day
when it will be my time to go
to where memories and mysteries play.

I wonder if once in the ground
any will still think of me
perhaps wishing I was still around
limping through woods on ruined knee.

Or maybe they will just remember
a line I scribbled out one day
in the depth of a December
while I watched the bare limbs sway.

Relax and take a breath
that’s the cure
in a rush don’t speak
on pressure don’t talk
bla, blah, blah, pa, pa, pa
like a bad radio wave

eyes angrily speaking
tongues creaking
walls been punished by the hands
even the one beside hurts
when their lyrics is not understood
or tone not flowing
jiggle your head
I understand, I concur.
with a keen eye
coupled with a smile

Stripped bare, my thoughts,
became a danger to my being.
Love, hate, akin to two trees,
striving to win against a hurricane.

The Oak of love dressed
as a sentinel of its forests creation
The yew a depicter of hate
furnished the killing long bow.

Dreams become so real
when awakened to their reality.
A canvas of oils left to warp
in the sun of my mistrust.

Dainty maidens crinoline flows
and hoops spreading the load
Hour glasses weave in and out,
crazed out of the visions reach.

Through a forest of ghosts I wend,
all their tall bones left behind
where faded browns and dull greys blend
and any green is hard to find.

On this steep Blue ridge mountain top
husks of hemlocks crack and creak
in winds that pause but seldom stop,
where mating hawks circle and shriek.

Here where the sun is seldom strong
and in ravines where streams run white
once grew hemlocks tall and strong.
now not one live one comes to sight.