The reaper is not always grim
nor does he carry a razor scythe
may not even be a him
can well be a mother, wife

A young Florida mother will suffice
a retired football hero
a vagrant with a rusty knife
a surgeon with a clinic

Or
a smiling
blond haired
Norwegian
with a plan
and a gun

streams of current binding
like slick seaweed
rooted drowned deep
sluice shores
the washed up
silt choked
treasure
glistening and still
immured
and lapped with waves
tasted sweet with bitter
salt
the briny tangle
splayed out with all
the bits of shells
brightly

A pot of stew for you to chew
includes a boot to kick ur a^^
Not enough knives, for ur demise
And a hand full of nails,
to impale ur behind

Getting into my head
Was not ingenious
Playing games for ur sick aim
Only stirred my beast within
Unleashed my wrath from the abyss
Now this pot of stew I'm brewing
Is just for you 

A brilliant idea I figure
would be to include you !!!!!!!!
into the pot of stew
That's stewing just for you

i want to write love poems and
tell you stories of why the Edelweiss
yodel, how your tongue speaks fluently
in my mouth, but it was raining in my dream

there is no famine in Somalia
and Palestine is no longer occupied,
I want to spread the word that love has been found
in the shadow-world of man,
the alien has landed
and lives with both feet on the ground

Looking back at the long path
From where I came, my footprints
Left on the obscured sand of time
Imprints of soles and satellite toes
Diminishing into dotted remoteness
Disappearing on the winding path

Difficult to remember though
The people and things I first saw
The initial whimpering gasp for air
That allowed the soul to manifest
A baby, like everyone else, helpless
With guilt of sin for being born here

All is still and summer green
(far too hot for most to stir)
Wild life is hidden by leaves' screen
Insect calls are a quiet purr.

In midst of season all still grows
fawns, squirrel kits and even plants.
The living forest rests, it knows,
that soon will come the harvest dance.

Anticipation slowly builds
as August quietly rolls around.
Crops putting on their final yield
sustenance from warm dry ground.

start at the barren windstroked lust
feel the passion twitching beneath
the ring fingers
the broken glass scar on the right palm
down along the rideway of ribs
the soft dune flats between
rib and hipbone
that rises thrusting and curling
down the length of leg

down to the articulated ankle
and dirt smudged toes
past the sullen metal of
the anklet

Even the dead deserve love
From those who held them dear
We bless the day they were born
And celebrate lives, well lived
Though it seems, what we do
Matters not to them anymore

The eyes that saw the departed
The ears that heard them sing
Corporal body, the visible link
Rot in lonely silent graves
Yet connected, soul to soul
It is hard not to matter anymore

as the sky fits the earth
you fill my begging bowl
you plunder my depths
with your naked embrace,
the warmth of a thousand suns
swirls under your
fingers,
you touch me honestly,
your arms enfold me like
tender mercy
your passion anoints me,

one armed, I can not fight back.

Watching, spying
behind the trunk of an Oak tree
clouds pass over its canopy
casting shadows
in the forest where I hide

I know you can’t see me
but I see everything
I hear everything
every labored breath
every footfall on the path

Offering promises
of sanctuary and forgiveness
your voice stabs the quiet
stops the birds
they know where to find me
but you are too enraged to see