Reflecting on your absence
caused me to consider a list
of a few the things I cannot do:

Sort the colors of the wind.
Count the water in my hand.
Or, ask for the sommelier at Denny's.
We always laughed about that.

Knowing all of this to be true,
I would add another item to my list:
Remembering the sound of your voice.
I can see it now, but cannot hear it.
And I always listened. I listened to all of it.

Rainbows are like whisps of dreams,
calling out to draw me inside.
When we sleep our fears betray us
leaving us empty inside.

I wander dark streets and passageways.
Not knowing just what I am looking for.
The people that line city streets
have empty faces and eyes!

No one seems to care anymore.
Their love for me has been taken!
When the sun comes up in the morning.
No one remains to befriend me!

Such a sullen evening,
as though the stars are provoked
by one another,
and the moon is disenchanted so,
turning its face toward infinity.

There is a foul odor taunting
the bitter air. It snaps and licks
the darkness until all energy is pilfered
away, and even sound is too fearful
to breathe, to utter, to open its haunted mouth.

There was a poem
written in his eyes

even before I knew
of such things.

I, the little girl always searching
for words and meaning,

saw his language there,
the beauty and balance of life,

the quietude of few words
unfolding like blankets, rivulets,

mantles of verse and rhyme,
untangling a sadness I

could never understand, making
the world a kinder place, delivering

inspirations and courage as this
child wandered into her dreams.

Silently small snow flakes fall
from far above the poplars' crown
as I walk this sylvan path
a mile or so outside town.

They slowly cover up the duff
and the sleeve of my old coat
as they join with their brethren
at the end of their final float.

Soon I come to where cedars grow thick
sheltering the ground beneath.
I carelessly step on a dry stick
whose loud snap makes me grit my teeth.

The birds hover and soar,
In watchful eye,
Over the blood and gore.
In advantaged sky.

Up above that fateful path,
That many trooped,
On history's graph.
As lower we stooped.

No limits on depravity,
Evil knows no bounds,
Stealing all sense of gravity,
Up above, not on the ground.

Fiction becomes more real,
Than the facts we once knew.
And the final seal,
Pinocchio's nose that grew.

Here's to the people
who not only help me
but give my life purpose
and direction
even if I've lost it.

They come into my life
at the lowest point
of time
and consistently remain there,
boosting me.

Help
is such a generic word
but it means so much
to me.

The help
they give,
gives me confidence
and a sense of pride
in what I can do.

What does your heart tell you,
do you believe it or not?
All of your life you've wanted
a safe place to hide.

The doors are all open now
just step within the bright portal of light..
Freedom awaits you,
just down the next corridor.

Doubting your own intuition
will only slow you down.
You've much more to offer,
just reach out and embrace it.

Don't give in to your fears,
just reach out and receive the truth.
The people in your life
can help you find a true path.

a septuagenarian renown for his trademark prank
to steal himself into a neighboring house,
and prepare an elaborate meal
unsuspectedly nabbed gorging
(ala man versus food
Adam Montgomery Richman fame
Brooklyn, New York boy)
at an undisclosed location.

When asked why
he left figurative bread crumbs
to the very doorstep of his demise
with a mouth full of food he replied
inarticulately sounding muffled,
with indistinct words
a lot of slurring
and sometimes even gurgling noises.

A phantom ship on a sea of gray,
He drifted, unfinished, through the fading day.
The study room, a cage of stifled breath,
Where smoke curled slow, a harbinger of death.

In fields of dreams, he soared, a graceful flight,
A rumble deep, a primal, savage might.
With kindred spirits, he would fiercely roam,
But thoughts like moths, would flutter far from home.

A mind adrift, a canvas torn and frayed,
By colors swirling, shadows disarrayed.
ADD, a whisper, a forgotten tune,
A symphony of chaos, born too soon.