Wednesday, May 25, 2016

Slowly . . .


when you walk down the path
in a sea of mountain flowers
up high where the air
is thin to breath . ..
watch out for the turn
near the base of the hill
where the sand turns to rubble
and the stars
no longer shine

Some days . . . when I have lost my strength to the trials of my job and life and I am depressed and weary . . . I look at the mountains and remember that I own them . . . every one of them . .. and the roads before me . . . and the roads behind . . . I own the sky and all its residents . . . and the sea in all it's glory . . . the wind, the fire bow before me . . . I own everything; yet I am not in control of all that I see . . for I barely have control of myself . . . maybe someday I'll be a god . . . but not yet.

hmmmm . . .

Monday, September 1, 2014

The Voices in the Night

Chihuly's Garden and Glass in Seattle 2014

 I stepped out into the deck
                                 at night
                            the stars were sprinkled
across that black sheet
        above my head                                            
      in familiar patterns,
                                  small lights bright,
       friendly faces beaming down. . .
so close                                                  
                                 I felt I could rearrange them
with a flick of my fingers . . . 
 The crickets were singing                            
      each voice a member of the choir
                      one in particular, an alto,
crying out over and over. . . . "poor Pete,
poor Pete. . . "
          their cheeky voices
                           thick with hope
some little ones          
                    pausing for the cause
like bits of percussion weaving in and out
                                                              with an occasional fanfare. . . 
A breeze raked her cool fingers
                         through the branches of the
trees -                  
                         bright at their tips
                     where they caught the rays
of the moon - 
                                                                   or the streetlamps . . .
       In the distances all around
                                                          were multitudes of voices,
               people laughing,
              music playing on some
                                                       odd radios,
like memories . . .
                                                              my yard echoes
                        the night
with the sounds of the city                        
          like a basin
catching raindrops
                        . . . . . . . or tears
and reminding me
                                                         with a whisper
that I am not
                                         alone. . .
                                                    . . . . no
                       . . . not ever!             

(Written last night)

(I found this little poem tucked away . . . without knowing its history
. . . I can only vaguely remember the feeling . . . the stars have always
amazed me . .. they give me wings, strength and a strange sense of being
one of them . .  immense . .  yet small - )
I gazed with open mouth
at the night sky
the stars are thick and bright . .
there is an endlessness
an eternal peace
in looking though time
trying to find the middle . ..

they told me that being alone in the night
not sleeping
not flying into the dreams of the restful places

will make me tired in the day
and I will fall
down the mountain . ..

but instead I floated away . .  

Friday, May 9, 2014


Be not afraid to fight
that old demon Woe
for though he chases
the birds on wing
he can easily be laid low . . 
           his wounds are deep,
reflecting faintly
of lost stars, 
                    and languid in
muddy waters . . 
               where dreams expire
as drowning swimmers' 
leaden arms refuse
               to fly . . 
yet longing to follow the butterflies of Summer,
watching eyes stung by their
             brilliant dress
       by Autumn storms
thin wings
                  fluttering wearily
though bright colors 
                displaced by the harsh drops 
     of rain
          or tears,
as battle scars. . . .
                                . . ..  your rainbow is too exhausted
                             to climb those busy roads
so you live in the grey,
             . . . dusky world where
                                    your long dark shadows
                      embrace you
and ancient dusty spider webs
                entrap you, wrap you greedily . . 
your beloved
grief rebukes 
                 and paralyses your heart . . .
yet the gate closed to
             your reprieve
                          remains unlocked
and on the side where shadows seem to grow
                          the sun rejoices
                                         waiting for you . . 
turn around .  . 
          and open your eyes . ..  let your heart inhale
step forward and touch the frame of strength . . .

the stolen breezes
kiss my face
with the scent
of new baked bread . . . 
and the small bright flowers
cuddled in the glowing green grass
kiss my toes
with honeyed dew . . .

Sunday, March 9, 2014

HeartBeat . . . Three Poems . . .

Three poems, unrefined . . . yet here they are in their boney state . .  stark and shadowy without the flesh to clothe their skeletons in bright colors . ..  I am uninspired and worn from life . . . but words lie deep in my breast, waiting to explode into flame . . . soon, very soon . . .

a murmuration of birds
a bonding of the seen;
whereas the unseen
lost in oblivion
dance on the mighty tides . . .
the book of Earth
written so long ago . . .where
time is lost behind the veil;
and the echoes of a song

distant in the wild
once heard . . . familiar,
the melody of life
a mark, a score across the vivid nothing . . . yet
a scarlet leaf tumbles to the ground,
an impression of disaster,
the sound of sighing
and regrowth . . .


I would have loved you
if I ever knew you . . .
but you were the petal
in the wind . .
a moment's brush
against my cheek
a pink aroma drifting
into the sunset. . .
like a forlorn ash;
If I had but known
would have reached out my hand
to catch your bitter sting
of foam . . . trembling at the edge
of the tide . . .
the last wave receding
and leaving you behind . . .
to melt away
a mere shadow in the sand . .
I may
have cooled your fevered brow . .
or set a broken bone . ..
or knit together shredded flesh . . .
If only I had known
I would have gathered up your tears . . .
and planted them;
seeds of the tomorrows grown
and grow again . ..
all errors forgiven
all dreams evaporate. . .
midnight terrors . . .
wild horses cannot stand . .
the spot you see against that shapeless cloud
is but a bird
of mystery . . . I will forever ponder
why she could fly so free . . .
when I never knew her . . .
or ever heard her song . ..


My life is like the song of the drum
my heart is a pulse
from the time I swam in those salty seas
and where I became
and I still become
I walk through life
to the beat of that drum
My march is matched
by the thrum of my dreams
the color red
and the shush of the seas
water rushes
and leaves rustle
the wind sighs
and the moon lights
and bodies unite
to an inner cadence . . .
I am not alone in that solid beat . .
as I grow older
and that tempo slows down
I see an end
coming ever so near
and I know that my life
extended somewhere
with the beat of that drum
my spirit I hear
in my heart


Sunday, February 2, 2014


A chain of events
like plastic rings
fragile and explosive
they break
under pressure . . .
a small wayward movement
a drift of the vehicle . . .
waiting for angels . . .
the mind sleeps
as the eyes glaze over 

anxiety lives in the heart
where the churning
of dynamics
shreds the wing
of the butterfly
and caves of solitude
beneath the crumbling
remain unmoved
but what is cherished
in the face of change
is the power of

and who am I
to stand against the tide
to break the wave
to stanch the bleeding of the wind
to drop a fragile egg
    and watch it explode
There is death in
    the flower
as the beserker
      goes astray
black flies on her face
like tears
at the end of the race
no smiles
of joy . . . .

Must of been bleak that day I wrote this . . . sad mood !

Tuesday, January 14, 2014

Thinking . . .

The moon graces
      the ripples of the water                            
with new white lace,
              crisp yet dynamic,
brilliant, and reflective
                                     of the depths of creation . . .
a song floats up                                       
            from the bottom of that
well - - -
    to quench the thirst
                               of my raw cells . . .
I drink deeply of
          cool spring waters              . . .                   
my face feels happy
        while doors
help open
and I 
        can find a way to fly
to the empty house 
            on the hill . . .                
                   shadows filter
through the trees                                          
         like moths fluttering
against the darkness . . .
                               I am the star walker and
                                                              I touch these glints of light
             as if they were stepping stones
guiding me to the places where
and love
           wash the souls of the damned
and the song of eternity
                                                             through the throbbing heart
                     of that which is;
             and that which was
                                                        gleams like a frozen dream 
       in the empty house
              on the hill .. . .
where memories, like dusty furniture,
                              populate the stillness
   and the stars glisten
                             with laughing eyes 
through un-curtained windows . .. .        

Monday, September 30, 2013

Freedom . . .

Somewhere in the Lot, France - 2012

The following poem was inspired while listening to the music of Van Syla: "Finally Free" .. .. 

the eyes of the dolphin
saw the wings of the 'gull
as she flew above mountains
which shadowed the sea . .

the heart of the dolphin
longed for those wings
to fly with the birds
across the great sky

and into the morning . . .
down through the night
the dreams of that fish
were always of flight .  .

mere flesh,
feather, scale, and fur
 the beasts of this earth
never fully share . . .

yet a heartbeat away
a breath taken deep
the warmth of the sun
a love that will keep

a world of water,
as the dolphin flies,
she leaps with a grace
in a soaring bird's eyes . . .

the joy of rapture
the freedom to dream
take just one step
you'll have your wings . . 

This music is so beautiful . . it brings the tears to my eyes . . . it's perfect . . . the sweet strings dancing with the piano . . . it's a dream of a song . . . something to give wings to the listener . . . lift them up with gentle warm breezes . . . let them fly with the music . . . the heart is full of happiness as the soul finds freedom . . . a melody to savor . . .Thank you for the kind dedication!

Sunday, September 22, 2013

The Sound of Color

  The sound of color
    dwells within the hearts
              of fallen angels

    a rainbow dances,
            a miracle song . . . along the lines of
                       cracked glass

    on a still and quiet night
       you hear the rustle
         of wings as
     once again they try
             to fly
      and fail . . .

     We are the sound
         of silence,
    the song of quiescence
           that sheds
    its essence along the breezes,

a whisper of a word . . . defined by dreams
and moved by clouds . . . 

    You are perfection,

freshly winged on Parnassian cliffs
                                 I am the forgiven,
    swimming through tides
           of feathers,
                        . . . crushed . . .

and crashed on hidden ragged boulders .  .

beneath a sea of vision
               and endless waters . . .

    releasing a salty incense,

                 and myriad travails
           raveling from distant memories,
                   deep corners of what could be . . .
   dark thoughts of misplaced treasure . . .
             a trail rims a sky reaching mountain

                        in the amber dusk. . .
    delicate as a moment,
                the flux of geese
    drifting south . . .

           and winter comes swiftly  

with fresh new sheets . . . 
                    clean, yet, 
of any wayward splash of ink . . . 


Tuesday, September 10, 2013

"The Bus is Moving; Please Hold On!"

So vocalizes the bus driver of my early morning journeys . . . a profound and wise observation of the whirl-wind of life . . . "The Bus is moving; please hold on!"

My friend is dying . . . her world narrowed in to the breadth and depth of a shoebox
 . . . her grip strong yet slowly . . . like a flower blooms
                             hands open . . .  reaching to the warmth of the sun . . .
. . . she hangs on to these last sweet moments, soured a bit by pain . . . 
                                                 yet energized with anger . . . "I don't want to go
                                  I am not ready. . ."

Like a small blue comma,
curled up in your bed of ephemera . .
                                           you are pausing for just a moment
                       the clock whispers against the wall . . 
                                   before that last good-bye
                                                you cling to the shreds of flesh
                                                                             you call your own . . 
the birds in the nearby trees,
            sing your name
                             with the lustiness
                                           of the well fed
and a minute humming bird
                                          drinks from your
                                                                    overflowing well . . .
your voice may be shrinking
but your song still rises across the valley . . 
                                                 a clarion call.
        Rest in the  cool shadows my friend . . .
                                find your place
where your head falls on my shoulder
                                                      I can be your boulder
                                                                                 of strength . . .  when the wind blows
             so carelessly
you fly in those breezes like a kite
                                                  of many colors
                                                                     reflecting the light
of this lonely blue planet 
                like a lover's drop
                of blood on a mirror . . 
                                                 Your eyes flow along the horizon
                                          watching the crows harass a hawk on the high narrow 
                          stream of air currents . . 
The bodies of the mountains
                                      cup the valley in safety and wisdom . . .
                    where a line of shiny bikes
        lead to your open door
                               and dusty footprints follow a pathway to your bed
where you lay
      curled up under a blue blanket
                                                             and wait
       for your set of wings . .. 

Thursday, August 29, 2013

Fragments of Color . . .

Thy quilt of many colors
define the  hills of summer winter spring fall . . .
the rusty oranges, crispy browns
the truest blue of eternity . . .
bloody reds, rivulets of wine . . 
the green of growth and whispering pastels
mere shadows of shade that falls between the sighs
of their creator;
thy paint is smeared upon the trees of god . . .
sublime yet vivid . .  deep and hurting . . .
thy breath begs my very soul for room
to expand beyond the sills . . . beyond the dreams . . .
to points of light
which ne'er return . . .
yet blooms upon the trees wherein I taste thy flesh
like in a dream  . .
the shape of winter . . . gives me rest . . .


The voice of the cello
warm, golden like honey
she flirts, with moments
of inspiration . . a dreaminess . .
a hollow deep within her womb . .
her fingers run along the tree branches
where water flows, silver and denuded . . .
she dances there
like a spark of fire . . . the eggs
of the moth
coat her throat . . . birthing into
feathery flutters . . . straight to the cage of my chest . . .
where they live in softness . .

Out of the Blue and Into the Amazon by Emily Burridge


Imagine that you are a bird  . . . newly created . ..

         birds are born with short melodies . ..  what color are you . . . what do you sing?

Pretend that you are a babbling brook

         cutting new corners, fighting a current . . . sparkling under the sun . .

Dream that you are a star

        escaping from a galaxy

                     dancing down a black hole . . . a new universe . . .

        what is the music there?

Visualize yourself under the sea . .  what are you . .

    what do you hear . . .

You are a ball of fluff . ..  flying in the blue like a kite

beneath a yellow sun . . . you think you have wings . .

and want to reach the nearest clouds . .

            where do you go . .  and what do the air currents

sing to you as you flow . .  easily . . . on your voyage . . .

As you dream, you are the goddess of music . . .

      it resounds through you

   like the vibrations through crystal

and the twang of a tuning fork pitched

      to break air molecules . . .  into the essence

of beginnings . .

        I hear the crickets

        sing their sacred song . . .

        and the heartbreaking blue

        of morning glories

        is reflected

        in splatters of dew . . .

Went out this evening to dispose of the trash,
the sun was about to set
and the colors in the sky made my mouth fall open . .
on a canvas water colored with a hazy shade of purple,
peach and pink . . .
and splashed with turquoise patches of blue
there were clouds dancing across the horizon masquerading as cats stretching after a nap, ballerinas in gray tutus . . . and
spinning space ships . . there were sleds and carousels . . .
and dainty mice cleaning their whiskers . .
a small bat flew by, like a comma in that sky
and a silver jet lit up with bright diamonds,
dipped its wings at me . . . and I foolishly waved . .
the clouds continued, in a line to pass and form
a parade, amorphous . . .
a grinning mask as the light began to fade
and just before
it all passed away, giving room to mosquitoes . .
an angel . . . kneeling in prayer . . .