Procreation a recreation of antiquity
micro populations confined by geographic boundaries,
spider webbing across the naked planet.

Verdant green sprouting, carpeting the stratum
Vegan life plan, wildlife annihilated ,
Adam’s Ale, liquid restrained.

Volcanic shudders, earth quakes threaten
Seismic clash, fissures appear
Imperceptible crash

Azure skies flood with ebony
Eruptions , oozing terror
Snuffing out life

End of Days
End of this world

One wants romance, another needs to fight,
those two want religion, and me;
I just want to fly
overhead and drop the bomb on you
packed in hemorrhaged wordings
revealing all our nasty little habits.

As tense as nearing end becomes,
life still sometimes breathes
a drift of dreams
upon my wondering soul,
my innocence long overcome
through focused lens of living,

yet rife with memories
still as sweet
as a girl's first doubtful kiss,
her touch in warming firelight,
drinking of her body with my own,
her heated breath upon my skin
still haunting
decades after death,

Resurrected again, from the nameless pit of Hell
A Killer reborn, new tales to tell
He's not gone away, just been lying low,
There's a feast coming, feel the Holiday glow!

Thanksgiving and Christmas, are almost here
There's recipes to polish, to bring Holiday cheer
His culinary skills need sharpening now,
and he's serving long-pig, not turkey or cow

Heightened imaginations
stemmed from not owning a lot of things;

faith in God, and family
in a land where all were kings;

receiving all the blessings each life brings.

Each agenda far from hidden
we were the flock, and God the "word";

at a time of innovation
from pure genius to the absurd;

with the best soundtrack music ever heard.

Our skies, truly the limit
and our faith knew no bounds;

under the band named, Noland
we explored through music, and sounds;

calamities sweet muse
lies watching
her river calm
the ocean thoughts
sounding beneath
flame patterns
star volitions on the wavelength
echoes

there is movement beneath
the surface
there are histories pausing
on each stretch of beachead
claimed

each night
remaining
and awakening
dreamers

You write me into your poem
and take me into your arms,
a promise not really remembered
but not ever forgotten,
there is laughter in the sunrise,
sometimes life is a waking dream
come true
when there is love without shadow.

Your eyes are diamonds of light. Your eyes
are beds of hot coal that sear through me,
igniting me.
Opening me.
Opening me to that other world we never
leave behind.

We all really are....
Poetically musical

Though I'm prosaically cynical
Though we are not related
Yet all in life is relative

The moon and sun only
Are naturally
Creative

As human race
From the earth is
Absolutely abhortive

Fruit bowl…

Ornate these oranges placed beside
apples and grapes, on a well
polished table while people die,
from need.

But fret not, the polish has
dust rings around a rose bowl
that it may hunt and clear,
with speed.

Tidy or untidy houses with
sloping roofs, that all matter
slides free, elucidates our
clean slate.

A ramshackle tented village
has flat roofs, to catch
whatever comes there,
still they wait.

In November I dream of tulips
while your hands open me like a psalm,
you sing me into poems and alabaster sand,
you feed my marrow with harmony,
with you I know how the sky fills the earth
with spaces between
the two of us.

I bought twenty tulips at the Westside Market, ten paper-white ones,
ten blush pink. We bring each other to perfection. We take all we are
with us to that quaking threshold.