There still grows a tree upon a bluff
above the river which it guards
and watches over course's plain
which floods whenever torrents reign.

And it grows far off the beaten path,
this ancient beech I chanced upon,
with nearly white smooth bleached bark
never touched by saw or wild fire's spark.

By its size I know that it was here
many years before I came to be
its bark by initials compromised
by lovers' pocket knives I surmised.

a garden of saffron
irrigated parched land
flowers picked at dawn
before midday sun wither.

fresh spice exotic delight
purple petals cups its
essence till harvest picks
plucks its stigmas trice.

inhale its wealthy odour
pure indulgence
powered deep red
natures seasoned aroma.

shipped abroad
since wooden gallows
eastern promise
saffron spice.

a craving
like a hungry day
emerging bright
and brittle

gleaming
this want
running thick
and deep

Ive been buried
beneath
the crash

and youve walked
me in debris trail
desire

kisses so I cant
look back
scent of sweet
warm breath
so I cant see
the sky
pain scattered
and falling

im dying
as each
layer
is revealed

as my ghost becomes
richer
as you reach me
as you seek me

I always thought I'd go out west
during the early weeks of fall
and roam Rocky Mountains in a quest
for antelope, mule deer, elk and all.

But I must wait 'till school is done
my priorities were clear and set.
There's no hunting under summer's sun.
My time to go was not here yet.

And still I dreamed of aspen's gold
but there was work that must be done
building a business, truth be told
along with marriage and first son.

CHANCE MEETING

He is my universe full of stars
as distant and as far,
he is the moon,
and when I smile
I see him glow for me,
this man I know
these three long years.

A man of integrity,
full of fears
of death,
and when I held my breath
to caress him,
sudden moonlit joys
reflecting life,
a special meaning,
no longer dreaming.

the mountains around me are tired
of sitting still
and i am sick of writing poems on this coffee table,
an empty mug on flat wood
a bonsai hating yellow and that sunrise
wilting
like all the leaves in today's rain
like the pianoforte through these four walls,
some kind fingers
playing temporary pauses
for the sound sleeping outside shaded windows—
its mouth full of love songs and nostalgia

we dust exterior lives
watching
the world spin
in the palm
of those who deem
themselves worthy,
like magicians
with hidden strings
we become
the puppets
fighting for words
and not truth,
seeking vengeance
on hip thrust societies
standing ten feet
from each other
as we lose
who we are -

i saw doves
and calla lilies
heard color
in tears
while someone
said to us
put your faith
in god
that death
is no end
but a blessing

i looked around
the different faces
who thought
"which god plays
good and evil
to decide
which person
stays "

what human
wants eternity
when all they love
are alive

how many would say
it's not my god

(changed to freeform)

Plumes of smoke rising
mingling in the misty haze
like you me and us

misty eyes clear
smoked dreams of yester years
leaving me ashen

Ageing battle years….

Biting my lip till it bleeds
staring at dusty boots,
I wipe away snot and tears
wondering where times went
six months I’ve stood
this task, Smithy says
“we’re ageing battle years”

Escaped another scrap feeling
old despite my youth.
so close, this one, aye my lip
hurts must be my chipped tooth.
“Battling years old teeth.” ha.

Wonder what the children are
doing, missing them like hell,
last time I saw their smiling eyes
boy did they look good.