Cemetery gates
swing open wide.
Beckoning me
to step inside.

Rusted, wrought iron
hinges that squeak.
Through the veils
I amble,
unable to speak.

Yew trees bending
with wear and tear
on lifeless limbs
I float, unaware

Beaches thick with ash
wash away
as black waves
of memories crash!

With a halt,
my body comes to rest
a wooden box closes
upon my chest.

Beneath the ground
is now my home
until my spirit begins to roam....

I was the child

that made you old,

I was also the girl

that couldn't be told

I was a rogue wave

and couldnt see 'now,'

that was I cherished

I'll never know how

when you went away

without word or a sigh,

I was forever bereft

we didn't get a goodbye

over time I've painted

my pictures in words,

I cried out my heart

in the differing verbs

I wish I could harness

and saddle a star

and fly to your side

When the moon grows to a fullness
of tunnel's beckoning silver end
I move through many things I grow
to feel sweet feather kisses
of breathing darkness on my skin,

and down between tall rows of corn
and pungent onion scent I kneel
to reach beneath wide prickly leaves
and test with touch the ripeness of
the treasure of my summer squash.

you should have been
explorers all of you
and
shown the whole wide world
to blind folks
like us

sitting at the desk
tapping keys only
whereas we should go about
the corners of eternity ….

seeking our final destination
in peace ….
but all human beings are quietlylazy ….
mostly like me.

The Valley of the Kings; sleeps
Below the moons blind eye
Within its mask of stars

Stone steps decend
Beneath the sandstorm
Amist the tide of centuries

Temple carvings beckon the night
And dance between
Twilights grasp

Swirling ocean of sand
Unfurls its innumeral golden veil

Sheathing and unsheathing
The Valley of the Kings

ABOUT TREES AND OTHER THINGS

The weakest branches
dried by a harsh summer sun
began to crack and fall
with a silent thud
onto the deep snow below
turned blue - gray
under Winter's moonlit night
surrendering with quiet grace
to inevitability.

thread twists
deep below the depths
waterlines
driven high by the cost
of business

like a bad hinge on a good door
Loved with the mirror
the way the light was thrown
down a damp hip

zoning

nicotine
and pockets full
of stripped out
simplicity

flaunting an edge
and patting down
the cover up

said you missed
a stair

and we wore
too many
years
with our monkeys
on our backs

that gait
hardwon
cornering

HIGH NOON

In the U. S. of A. (where the antelopes play)
A land-rush had given men hope;
With no money to pay, they had reason to stay
And put roots down, their families could cope.

But some of these men were alone, had to send
For a wife from the east, say, New York
One such was the male, in this terrible tale
(Asked for one who was used to hard work.)

Prince Charming is a gigolo
how many stories was he in?
Cinderella caught him
trying to wake Sleeping Beauty.
His defense: she's in a coma
c'mon, Cindy,
is that really such a sin?

She took her glass slipper
shoved it up his ass.
Told him where to put his millions
perhaps you think she's crass.

Snow White was a whore
living with seven old men.
Her legs opened and closed
like a revolving door.
Gods only know
where she's been.

a sky crumbles into dusk
violet and vermillion flames
the symphony of voice in the trees

the undulations of waves

there are birds cutting currents
and beacons offshore
beyond the island dream

the paper is succint
and free of the cellophane
the aroma wavers
in bitter streams

the first sharp fire
cupped to the dusk
and the crackle
ride an edge thats
been dulled with
ache forever

honed sharp
and hot deep
within a rib