if i press my head on a pile of sand
i can hear the ants
the waking cherry blossoms
mother painting the fences three shades
of pink

this canvas i'm admiring
is last year's clouds
the fat rumbling of late march and thursday
the glass wind chime dangling
from her fingers

when i'm tired of courting sunsets
i think of father
the summer gone fields
mother uprooting vines and soaking sorrow
with patience

I learnt from you
That less is more
Emotional Expression uncensored
Bites to the core

Vitriolic rants damage the speaker
Reputations are tarnished, others keep score
Both friends and lovers are lost
Forever more…

Bjr 31 March '11

its there
the part
the play

within the curve
the smooth hinge
motion

the turn
and look

each portion
I taste
each night
burning
like a fire ship

today Im a ghost
today Im haunting
my own reflections

all I dream about
is you

After working until lack of light
I headed toward the homestead, bright
listening to all the peepers sing
on a late April evening

A moth came with me through the door
as if he'd often done the same before
he dove and fluttered through the air
above the couch and easy chair

I left him flitting in the den
as I went to the warm kitchen
to find my supper set out there
and my love with whom my day to share

Friends of the human kind
What love fathers give
Where on earth can one find?
I miss my father each day
But when I see his picture
He comes alive, though
Aeons ago he passed away.

Tears of happiness
Sorrow and joy
Trickle down my face
As my loving father’s
Face, this dew drops trace.

Father come back
If only for a moment
So that I can just feel you
If only you can come through.

we walk together on friday nights
under a swirl of wet leaves
clinging
to unclothed limbs and faces long and lonely.
there's a round puddle
where our rain boots make waves for the boat
some child of eight left behind.
here and again we eye the miles of fences
and the NO TRESPASSING signs
nailed on wood or vinyl with a splash of red.
our footsteps wind around the corridor
where a group of strangers
smoke pipes
string violins for the nightingales
and recite unwanted haiku to the march moon.

.
Johnny doesn't speak of time
or the universe or God anymore
not in the metaphysical sense
he no longer requires a daily dose of boredom
and vaguery

sees a beautiful face
no words, just sees
a muscle car
a slight growl deep down in his throat
a pool table
a sly smirk
a smoke, a toke
a cold bottle of beer
elicit an honest "ahhhh"!

His name was Noble,
fitting for his character,
a big man poured dark
into a uniform
eternally a size too small,
his grip engulfing whenever
we shook hands,
but never hurtful.

He guarded us on graveyard shift,
watching every night
framed by our always-open door
even in the coldest times,
and strolling all the
lengthy paths of busy warehouse
narrow between racks and pallets,
ever watchful of and for us.

this box contains letters
love letters i wrote
and never sent

they would've arrived
at wrong times
or got lost in transit

this way i can read them
remind myself i loved you

some people never go crazy
in their simple lives
their simple dreams
that won't get in the way

these letters
will never get old

you will never get old

i wrote them in
early fall
it won't wither,
won't lose its colors

away away
we are caught in currents
duress

sleight of hand
and at the gate
the idling engines

just this light
from window banks
slakes my thirst
and I hunger

in the miles
tracing from us

I yearn for so much
and we give so little
precious is the we
of all

this tide that sweeps
away the histories