The aged rocker struts his stuff
across the silver screen,
his voice a thin reminder
of what it once had been.
His fame, was legendary
a god of rock and roll
but the hedonistic lifestyle
has taken too much toll.
Oh why can’t you see yourself
as you really are,
a sad and tired old man
who was once a superstar.
The sycophants will tell you
that truly you’re still there,
but your voice has lost its power
and your head is bald and bare.
Perhaps there is a heaven
where aged rockers go

Sol's spirit skips across the blue -
a nascent multispectrumed hue
that sparkles in the morning dew.
Life made anew, life made anew.

His rays spread out, so manyfold,
across an easel dawn has rolled,
the new day's works to be there scrolled
in threads of gold, in threads of gold.

O'er mounts of green the morning breaks
to desert that no water slakes
and elsewhere there'll be soft snowflakes
the world awakes, the world awakes.

Finally being real with me
Fully understanding why I would deal with grief
As if it's fuel hating all knowing the feeling's mutual
All I would do is build and destroy
Whatever you would feel, I'd avoid
Because to me it's unnecessary noise
Telling me that I need to change
Even when I'm given 2 cents I'm null if you vent
Airing out your pain is what cooled me down
As if others sorrow is what kept me sound
Hiding in silence, meticulous bound
To get close enough to have you love me

curvature of the tell
like the tension
above the lip
the bow

a slate excited hue
rolls slow
mixing clouds like
mortar
stirring like the Ravens
in their ancient nest
atop the microwave
tower

the eyes drawn
like the new hand
tips of fingers
lingering on
patterned
hiding the faces
only the ripples
of the magic
show the
intuitive dance
of the game
of chance

..

With a quill I wrote verses
in lavish strokes of pink
somewhere along the line
I ran out of your ink
no other ink can ever script
those mystic duets
of a poem once begun
but without an end line...

COWS AND BUTTERCUPS
WEST VIRGINIA 1944

across a field velvet green,
with buttercups and roaming cows
framed in skies cerulean
two women, skirts past the knees.
white hair dancing in the breeze,
walked lazily arm in arm in quiet conversation.
rare moments these to tell what only women
need to share beyond the care of men

Poetry,
a collection of words.
assembled, just so.
Deep, dark words,
juxtaposed
with the common tongue.
Conveying complicated imagery
so clever, the words
wrapped in their emperor’s clothes,
become uncoordinated.
mismatched.
The ordinary things of life
are lost in metaphor.

I hear so many people say today
how savage has become the human plight,
then cross themselves in piety and say
that Jesus will return and make things right.

He'll fight a war, all evil He will slay.
'Twill signal final end to all our quandaries.
And all we ever need to do is pray
for Him to rid us of our enemies.

So, when the one predicted comes around,
shall we find, then, sudden harmony?
Is this, in fact, the reason we’re Earth-bound -
denying our responsibility?

DANCE ROMANCE IN FRANCE
We dance...
.as if in romance....
we feel ...we are free in France....
we prance....
we dance exercise romance...

we feel lighter
than the weight we carry.....
as we cross the floor
and
love to lay once more...
lay, yes...
as else we will be left unknown....
not having left a progeny....

so come dance
along the globe with me...

settling frond
the time
wound like
wind

I remember
the rust
and harsh
salted meals
I tasted the
cold on frozen
mornings
a lament
remembered
in springs
sunny dispositions
and transitions
latitudes of
extent
and extremes

like a letter in my
pocket
your love
was forgotten
the touches
upon the hip
and shoulder
now remembered
like a Berg shoved
aside in the steamy
wake of voyage