Wednesday, February 24, 2010



  Someday I will run with you . . .
and together we will fly the milky-way
and swallow the morning star;

I will run with you . . .
and as we hear the coyote sing
we will hand him the sighing moon
while the crystal sands of time
slip away . . .unnoticed.

Someday I will run with you
giving lift to our wings
and we will fly over wild oceans
seeking pure horizons
linking the unselfish hearts of angels

I will run with you
while the robin is laughing
for the love of the newborn sun
where he will gild his feather tips
and the ashes of lost desires
sift away in gentle breezes . . .

Someday I will run with you . . .
and together we will climb
the glorious silver peaks
and touch the mountain flowers
weeping their golden honey
and the rainbow hued insects
sing their magic songs

I will run with you
and we will swim beneath the seas . . .
we will fly beyond the heavens
and touch every beating heart
I will run with you
I will see you passing me
and I will turn and run with you . . .



Guitar so . . . Sweetly Perfect!


Piano/ambient so exquisite!

To the sapphire blue dawn
the early morning sparrow sings his love song
as the geese fly overhead in the darkness
mournfully calling
to the train whistle in the distant fog
and the rains come gently
down in twinkling crystal
filling the gaping wounds in the ground
while the swish of the trees
adds an ambiance of peace
and as the sky begins to turn purple . . .
the stray fallen blossom
clinging to the ancient mossy trunk
of an old leafless oak
gives shelter to the newborn spider
and somewhere in the
far distant past
a whale sang a love song
to the glorious sea
as it gently rocked
her deep blue world . . .



Listening, now, so good!

Rain comes down in sheets of laughter
and the scent of spring blossoms
as a heady perfume
clings to me like a magical cape . . .

The song of the dancing rain
tempts me
to taste the flavors of the air
visible as rainbows,
ephemeral as dew . . .

spring blossoms paint
a glowing pathway,
softly refreshing and
as they are crushed beneath
my flying feet,
the small white petals melt away
like spun sugar
in the driving rain.


Beautiful voice, beautiful songs!
Beautiful listening! 

Monday, February 22, 2010

Dear Friends

For V.C. from M^^W

Lost in your oceans wild
as the deep frothy sea
tosses and turns you
and holds you . . .
kissing you with
its incomprehensible salty maw
and threatens to destroy you . . .
while keeping you locked
within its heaving waters;
you grasp at any hope
looking forlornly at all the passing ghost ships
from whose masts fly the long easy banners of hatred, loss
and pain beyond endurance
as writhing skeletal forms attest
yet . . .
within your vision
but just a thought before the loss of grace
is a hope like terra firma with shades of calming green
hovering just above your warm heart . . .
keeping pace, never losing you for a moment
in shapes of love . . .
just call and it will come


Passing Passion - for Sylviane

Like the deep taste of a thick rich clover honey . . .
so full of itself - so indulgent - so flamboyant in its appeal
to the soul under its command . . .
a slave to pleasure . . .
and yet so full of pain - anguish - insecurity:
is it love?
or a spiritual neglect which remands the soul
to another round of bewilderment and
questions, a hole forming in the heart
put there as a gap between virtual time and space
being filled
with blinding joy,
mystery and misery 

where does this rapture come from?
for as the roots of a fast grown passion
lie shallow

the whole structure yields to the
whim of a mere passing breeze.

and thus
is not love. 


Saturday, February 20, 2010

A Trail of Crumbs . . .

A Trail of Crumbs . . . .
[not really a poem, and not about art - but a very painful blog for some reason - and I am finally done with it: Sunday 8:35 in the morning - YAY]

Hit the top of my hill  this morning . . . just to see my bus drive by
Ah well - go buy some water and give the extra change
to that smiling guy in the store . . .

People should smile more . . .
it creates beauty on their faces . . . value . . .
and it chases away the black storm clouds while
catching a ray of sunshine and reflecting
some of that shine to the heart of the onlooker.

Something I have learned, in that big brick building
with all the bells and stresses,
smile hard
smile often
and sing special things to the people
. . . it brings joy to the heart . . .
mine and to the others' . . .

I had a teacher, once, who called me 'Smiley' . . .
too painful for

the shy person I was . . .
so I learned not to smile.  And then once, some
friends pointed out that my lips were
naturally upturned at the edges . . .
so I tried ever harder - practiced in front of the
mirrors to be un-smiley - defining a frowny face
-- -- well - I eventually needed to relearn to smile again.

When you work with short people
you love to see their smiles,
those gap toothed smiles    
put some treasures in your heart.

A smile is so mundane and yet
profound, cheap to give
and yet a treasure to receive . . 
even from a stranger.

I finally understand why
people keep writing to me to discuss love;
well . . . its all over my blog
its in my poetry, and other stuff - its about love . . . . ha!

And then blessings of blessings . . .
I ran into an old friend . . . an old dear friend 
of mine, John, he was going around with his
pointy stick picking up cans -
"I'm just being a bum," he said.
He always reminds me of that singer, Willie Nelson,
with whom I have always been in love . . .
and I adore John. I think he is so beautiful . .
I love looking at his sweet old face.  Once a cowboy,
and an inveterate wanderer, now he roams about
the neighborhood, one of our more colorful characters.
He always gives me treats from his garden and hangs around
to chat, and with that sweet smile of his, is so endearing. Sigh . . .
sometimes you want to hang on to someone - forever . . . I hadn't
seen him in quite some time - -  SO YOU SEE - there was a special reason for missing
that stupid bus.
Today, John and I chatted about rats.

Well, I had a great bus ride - I love it when loud
happy people are near to me - - she had the 
whole bus smiling 
and I went to the waterfront 
to snap some pictures just like a tourist 
with my cheap little camera - 
I envied the big pretty ones all the rest
of the crowd had but - I love my little baby -
she fits in my pocket - I followed the river and wandered under the
railroad tracks.
And then past the train station
along many pathways,
and over many roads, seeking a
trail - looking for something
I'm not sure what . . .
and I don't believe I found it.

I meandered through the park blocks until I got to Powell's book store where I was unable to find the books for which I was looking. The largest bookstore in the world and it didn't have my books - oh the irony! Oh well - I am hungry and I smell food.

Something is lurking                                                                  
in the corners of my mind
spiders and dust
and assorted stuff
swept up nightly
but returning
to plague the song
in my brain
like a stumbling
to make me halt and think . . . 

Going Home                                                                       

I realized that I wanted to capture everything in my camera . . .                  
to take a picture of that guy playing his banjo
in the garden by the road,
and that tree with the burly
arms, knotty toes,
and lacy branches, or all
those guys, seven of them walking
down the street,
laughing loudly,
mouths wide open, and
that poor guy in front,
trying to hear something on his phone
frantically covering his ear -
I wanted to take pictures
of the sound of the chimes
and the children questioning
their dad about everything . . . and
The smells of food . . .
the cherry blossoms . . .
Oh, to possess forever those extra
special smiles on the faces of
happy people
or the kindness of the bus driver

I wanted to seize the 
unique colors of the early spring sun
shouting into my eyes,
sparkling and exuberant

I wanted to capture all that
all the bikes
moving down the pathway
together with
the shadows creeping
across the faces of  the buildings
and . . . people blowing in the breeze
and the sound of gentle
chatter on the bus

I want to own
it all
I want it all . . .
every molecule . . .

The golfers on the range
          lined up with tiny white balls and
the way the small white
daisies pooled in the
dip of the green
and the flavor of sunlight
through the tree branches
and every person's soul
captured forever in my camera . . .

But most of all I regret
asking John
to let me snap a picture
of his smile . . .

So, I think this story is NOT about love, but all about that deep  hunger, soul hunger.
And reflections, and sadness, and a trail meandering . . .
with no end.
When I go searching, I never find . . . exactly what. . .
is on my mind . . . 
There is no word to describe what I long for . . .
so I continue to look when I get the chance
and now to struggle,
with words, AND the camera
to narrow in on the elusive meaning of life?

I feel a failure
because I miss the essence of something which
I cannot grab . . .
that elusiveness,
that frustration . . .
I feel it is beyond words . . .
and the capacity of the camera's lens:

BUT I AM grateful for what I have and
that is why I need the mundane . . . 
and my life
after all.



Wednesday, February 17, 2010

This! & Thus!

So, when I told Destiny (one of our more squirrel-y youngsters, but very endearing) that I was posting her drawing on my blog, she got so excited that my heart just melted. . . so I thought . . my blog is not really for children - so I started one for my school; to be able to share with the students and the families and others - So I started one . . . YAY!?! Now my problem is this:
How many more hours in my day do I get?

Sometimes - I need a little reminder
why am I here
what am I for
what are my dreams
and I find the little answers
scattered like dust
throughout my way . .
I find them pointing
like a sign post
reminding me
who loves me
and who I am  . . .

ah yes - I remember:
 A little poem from Seth to brighten my day:

I love Mis. Wolfsong your are the best.
I like you.
I wish you can be mine teecher.
your are the best.
I like yor stile.

Was it you who sang to the fields
of white clover
as they danced in the breeze . . .

did they grow for you?

and who polished the moon
gifting it with that solemn
brow and a rhythm
to swing in the sky to luminate. . .

did you touch the moon?

Did you breath that sigh
designing the clouds
and lifting the warm wind
to move the tiny sparrows

did you lift their wings?

And who cast the fire
across the waters of the lake
reflecting a golden sun
and did you create
that life giving orb, too?

did the fire burn for you?

Did I see you in the form
of creation?
Did I hear you in the song
of the stars?
Did you waft to me in the
scent of the lilac?

Where were you?
Were you there?
Was that you?


I remember how I would stand
by the side of the mossy green sea . . .
the lacy foam washing
over the graceful shoulders of the waves
as the bright red sun
would slowly slip behind
that big horizon . . .
an easy road to
distant faraway lands . . .
gleaming and beckoning upon that briny surf,
and I would reach out to touch
the tears
on the face of the weeping sun . . .

I remember standing, wishing,
longing to walk on that bright road
leading to anywhere,
hope or love or peace . . .
I knew it was over there
somewhere . . . somewhere
far away from me . . .

Gazing at the blinding sun
an empty space would form
behind my unblinking eyes
where a salty tear would grow,
and falling into the ocean
it would sink there like a stone . . .
deep below the waters
and very much


Hush . . .

Hush my friend
don't cry for me
I am nothing more
than that mortal bug
walking across your floor . . .
nothing less than that blip
of time given to grace our days.

Hush my friend
don't cry for me
I am nothing more
than that small dark cloud
raining teardrops on your shore . . .

nothing less than those steady hearts
having won this exalting race.

Hush my friend
don't cry for me
I am nothing more than
that lullaby you sang
echoing love for evermore . . .
nothing less than whispering faith
leaving its brilliant trace.

Hush my friend
don't cry for me
I am nothing more than
yonder mountain peak
casting shadows through your door . . .

nothing less than those quiet souls
seeking that glorious place.

Hush my friend
don't cry for me
I am nothing more than
the love you gave
to the ones that you adore . . .
nothing less than the hope and peace
with which our souls be graced.


Memories in Amber

Remember how we walked together
hand in hand
under the garden arbor,
a fragrance of concord grapes
on our lips
throughout that warm red Autumn?

Remember how the ice on the trees
chimed melodies within the forest
on that snowy hill
and how we warmed each other

enduring that long cold Winter?

I remember when
you opened your eyes and
looked into mine
creating a gentle wind
that swept across the salty seas
embracing glorious Spring

And remember how we ran
barefoot across the sea damp sands
beneath an open sky
searching forever between the gentle tides
as Sol danced with Summer?

. . .and the years go by
and the seasons pass on down that road
and time burns naked beneath eternal stars
but buried in my amber heart is you . . .
Forever in my dreams . . . .  you!



The sun doth shine and shine
and it will ever be
and the moon will float
like a crystal ship
upon the black black sea
the stars like silver fishes
swimming swimming ever near
close upon the tree tops
shining shining ever there
I stretch near to touch the tips
and find that I can fly . . .
reaching to the moon ship
higher higher than the sky . . .

I just wrote that little poem for a friend and decided I wanted to keep it 'cause it was cute - was that bad? Naw - I be not bad - I just share so I will make another to give away. 

There is a point in my thread
around the city
Where I know I have taken off
in flight . . .
I see the twinkling lights
below me
as I bind my threads so tight,
winding gently around
your body
my cocoon of silk is soft . . .
cherishing, embracing
your sweet brightness
to myself
and to my heart,
my tender web enfolds you
and my arms forever hold you
brightly shining
in my song.


I don't like this style of poem (the preceding one) - blah - I don't know why I am fallen into it - Its like a marching cadence and I cannot stand this style of poetry coming from me - it isn't me - I need to study this issue . . .  grrr
I wrote this poem early in the morning on my walk into work . .. as I rise above the ridge I get a spectacular view of the city; which I hope somehow, someday to capture on my camera . . . so far . . . no luck.


In the center of my dark sky
is the big dipper
long ago emptied

who are you, to right
all the wrongs scattered
over all the continents?

and who is this undertaker
the children speak of
as they roll up their
beautiful eyes
and clutch their throats . . .

the night sky is so dark and cold
and the stars
of the big dipper
comfort me while
I hear the free bird
sing her morning song

Why do the children
over-use the stub of the red crayon
in their stories
the red of blood
that flows like the river down into the valley

we are stuck in the icy dreams of
our horrors . .
and the broken shards drive into our bones

and then I saw the great white horse
gallop over the hill
and on his back an invisible rider
carrying blessings and
scattering to the winds
like sparks from a fire
yet so many
       so many
burnt out so quickly
falling as blackened ashes
and disappearing
as nothing . . .
yet . . . but a few
tiny flames like candles
dispensing light
dispelling the dark
a flame to heal, brighten and hope
a flame for peace
a flame for love

Why does that child
weep over her lunch
her tiny face
resting on my heart?
and where is the refuse heap
that belongs to the children . . .

and where is the spark
that belongs to you . . .

And the people flow
like a silver river
down the roads of their
making . . . their misery
destroying the dreams of
the children

and the small boy cries . . .
"I don't want to go home
can I stay with you?
I am afraid . . . my little dog
and I hide under the
bed in the dark of the night . . ."
and the ravaged face of the
child looks at me with hollow eyes

A spark long lost
leaving but a trail of light
that very wisp of hope
   and love, peace
slips away into the darkening sky.

and the angels sing
from the center of that sky

the big empty dipper . . .
and then they too,  slowly
fade away . . .


Wednesday, February 10, 2010

Just Some Stuff in No Particular Order!

How I love this little song - it has a heart fulfilling uniqueness and beauty that rises above so many similar tunes and adds glory to your vision and lifts up your emotions adding joy.


Wow - I really enjoyed this little album. I especially enjoyed the singing in the second track - it sounded so earthy and anciently mystical. I had to put down whatever I was doing to listen carefully - the sounds brought me into the ancient tropical forests - some discussion going on here - interesting topics and beautiful ambient music - and a nice long jog through the arboreal wilderness, scenting the thousands of stories of the residents therein, ears perked up to catch the drift of sounds and heart ready to plunge into the next adventure around the next bend or over the distant river . . . . fantasy inducing music - a marvelous success with me.

A little Stykz video made by Max O.
I loved the creativity and sweet story line on this very short video.
He said he was not done yet so will post finished product later.

So this one was done by Joshua B. - The Hulk - last minute job, he was anxious to get his video in so we finished after school.
I tell the boys that if they want their stuff published they will have to forgo the violence. No swords, guns, blood or heads rolling. Sigh . . .  bless their little boy hearts . . . its very hard for them but I think they try. 

I can't get over how good this music is - quite epic in appeal and monumental; definitely an interest holder.

A poem from: October 9, 1980 - I think this actually happened, or at least my perception of the events:

We ran in the wind
And sucked
In deep breaths
The nectar
Of the maroon
The wooded bridge
We danced
To the song
Of the Wood duck
And threw
Silver stars
Into the lake.
The trees bent down
To hear our whispers
But we shouted
To the gay hills
And ran away
Faster than the lonely cry
Of the night.

But then
We gathered
Ourselves in
And chuckled
To ourselves. 

October 20, 1980
Fly away free bird
I see your wings
In the golden sun.

Fly away free bird
I see the grey clouds
Across the weeping sky.

Fly away free bird
I am going with you
For the eternal stars.

Fly away free bird
I dream of it too
Freely along with you.

Another from 1980

I wander in the shadows
       of the night
Seeking anywhere
A ray of hope
A gleam of light
I listen for laughter
I hear only sighs
In the darkness
In the night.


This poem, written in 1978, was a shock for me to run into, as it reminded me of my belief as a child that I was but the dream of a bear in hibernation. I would think about that bear daily as I washed the dishes (an excruciatingly boring chore) but it gave me time to think about this bear who was the real me, dreaming she was a girl, bored out of her mind. This belief came before my years of believing that I was a space alien child . . .  but that is another tale for another time . . .

 All my life I wonder
If my ultimate being
Is but a figment of my
Or dreams
Of times going by;
Or songs
Sung over lutes
By mysterious beings;
Or am I but the
Stark shadows
Inside the eyes
Of some creature in hibernation?
Could it be that I am
But spirit
With wild imaginations
Of more tangible things;
Or a fantasy of God
Who pulls the strings;
Or mere charges in some
Wild electrical storm?

Or could it be that
I exist
As me
In this time
To dream of better things?


Another poem from 1978
I actually like this one quite a bit as it is in one of my circular modes
with some decent flow. . .I remember I got this one from a picture, a photograph
of a brilliant sunset with a stark black silhouette against the crimson sky. . .I am actually quite surprised that I remember all that . . .

There was a garden
In my song
Covered in wild dew
And shards of cobweb
Fighting strong
Against erosion
By whispering winds.

There was a sunset
In my garden
Ladeling promises
Of new beginnings
And glorious tomorrows
To light the ways.

There was a tree
In my sunset
Starkly outlined
In black repose
Standing wary
Of any retreat.

There was a bird
In my tree
Hurrying the sun
With his song
Longing for diamonds
Under his wings.

There was a garden
In my bird
Covered in secrets
And living instinct
Wild and tame
Fighting strong
Against erosion
And progress. 


Knocking on doors
day after day
like the ultimate salesman
not selling but buying.
I ask the question
"Why, Why
Is it all melting away?
Where does it go?
like the snowman
on a warm winter's day
it just disappears.
Surely its there
Somewhere around
hidden by waves
of madness.
Perhaps it moved
over there
beneath the trees
or on the top of a mountain,
beneath the sea;
But why, why?"

Where does one find it
after it is lost
Perhaps it just
in appearance.
What is happiness anyway?


I was very depressed during this period of my life. 1978
All the rest of these poems are written between 1978 and 1980

I saw myself
On the top of a hill
Leaning lightly
On a stalk of wheat
I was laughing
At the sunlight
Glowing, flowing
All around me
Laughter, joy fed my soul
As honey
Thick and sweet

I stood in the valley
and watched myself
as I cried
in the dark.


There's always magic
in a circle
Like the ring on the merry-go-round
And a ring of bright smiles
A circle of children
Playing children's games
Around and around
A circle is eternal
People facing people
A ring around a finger
Arms around a neck
A song around a song
The ring of life
The seabirds circling
The earth around
And a ring of mushrooms
The elves dance around
From the circle of atoms
To the ring around the moon
To the circle of planets
All around the sun
To the circle of stars
In the ball of the universe
There's always magic
in a circle


The alpine blooms
Look like colored confetti
Scattered by the winds
That play
With the baby clouds
And I sit
In my special place
The frowning mountain peaks
Lording over the valleys
Of the tiny village,
Down there somewhere
At the end of the pathway
With tiny people
At work or play
Living in the umbra
Of the colossal mountains
Giants tumbled
    from the stars.

Mary -
sweet lady
in the dark
What happened
to the days
behind you?
- youth
was it ever
really there?
why have you
come here?
to this age.
this lonely place
in the window.
do you still
count the stars
as you used to 
so long ago
as a child
lying in the grass
on your mountaintop?
was it ever
really there?
the days
fly by
so empty now.
your time
so nearly spent.
your tide
is going out.
sweet lady
do not weep
for time gone by..
I am here
to hold your
and live your youth.
now mine.



In the downy feathers of the birds
One finds the softness of life
As the clouds in the sky
And the foam on the sea.

The shadows clinging gently
To the old trodden earth
Wipe out the scars and the sighs
Leaving wispy leaves to glow.

In the sky slowly turning
Lonely moon and friendly stars
Softly haloed in the darkness
Gently smiling in their light.


I felt so differently then
In those days
So long ago.
What I wrote down then
Seems to me to be
out of the mouths of strangers.
What is the changing growth
That took me over?
What great powers
Does it play
On the minds
of those beneath it?

Who am I
That I was
A stranger to me now?

Who am I
That I will be
The person of tomorrow?


All is shadow,
nothing but shadow.
All that we see
but reflections
at the base
of our minds.
Wishing does not
the Truth;
But Truth
stands in back
of the crowd.


Big blue boulders
Stand in the movement
Of frothing green sward.
Sun glinting objects
Jitterbug in lacy gold.
Scarlet blue dreams
Gad about like poppies
Gossip in groups
As the birds
Park on peaks.
Sweet sugar tricklets
Golden as honey
Flow freely and lively
From  boulders of blue.


Beyond the fire mountain
There is a promise green
and hope lies in a moment
or the rushing of a stream

Beyond the fire mountain
Love and grace have met
Before the sun can rise
The sun has got to set


Midnight Island

Red moon bloated
Sinks behind
   the sea waves.
Darking urchins
Between the splintered tides.
Deepened sounds
Betray the living
Creations dying.
Flitting stars
Dancing behind
Cooling sea mists.
Fingers of God
Reach out and fling
       the sands.
Purple night
Desiring silver light. 
And the wind
Blows away a sigh.
But the palm trees
Bend down
And drink of the deep. 


The old men sit
on park benches
placed in order
around the scum covered fountain
of a curly head youth
gaping at them
through unknowing eyes
and from a leaden vase
he pours a crystal water
to splash and swirl
away at his feet

The old men sit
beating hearts
in unison
 gazing with gray eyes
up at the tall
buildings surrounding
the park in the city

The old men sit
watching the
early morning traffic
the busy throbbing traffic
and a city bird
hides away
singing a sad song
to awaken
the city people

the old men sit
and one begins to speak
"i was a young boy once
and the country was young
where there are tall buildings now
there were tall trees
shedding pine cones
and squirrels
in the summer there were apples
and tree houses
and wild forest pets
our neighbors lived three
miles away
and there was peace

i was a young man once
and there were wars
and men were men
and they would fight
for their beloved country
and the flag they
would raise with pride

i was married once
and my wife was young
and i loved her
and we had children

i am an old man now
my wife has passed away
my children are grown
and they are a part
of this new world
and i am not
and i hope
soon to die"

the old men sit
on the benches
and they nod
their shabby old heads
and they all
begin to talk
 about the day
 when they were young


Ok - one more and then I am done for the night or - ah - early morning . . . there are so many of them . . . like sawdust from my mind . . . where did they all come from . . . I haven't even begun -

Time was -
As the sea roared at our feet
We braved each oncoming wave
Time was -
When the sky poured,
New lakes were discovered
by our well worn
     rubber boots
Time was -
The sky and earth
In matching white
Created new playgrounds
    and we became snowmen
Time was -
When God sent forth
blue skies, smiling sun,
Dancing flowers
As we spilled forth
Energy, creating and destroying
Time was -
As we laughed and wept
Minutes were lived fully
Caution was not known
Time was -
And exceeded all invention
       of man
As we loved and hated
Every second 
       every day
Time was -
So full - then -
And as I sit here now
No more the child
With time,
Of love, wisedom, timeless
Time was - 
But where have I lost it?
Was it only a dream?
As a gift of eternity?
Time was
But it is gone
Each moment passing by
           and faster
Eternity passes by


These next few were written in the 90's:

November 19 -

In the crystal night
The snow puddled
              on the ground
like curdled milk
Sitting on a crosstown bus
with a squint-eyed moon
                   riding on my shoulder
lights of the city
sit below the hills
         like an expectant audience
The stage is set
           beyond each window
I catch a glimpse
       of lives elsewhere
eyes floating by
     in the fog
Souls of a drama
   unfurl behind me
on the seat of the bus
A story is told
    in a smile
a gesture

we read the event
with a knowledge
burnt into our hearts
by the experience


I saw white birds flying high
like crystal in a purple sky
and a rainbow's dream
reaching down
to the lost horizon on the ground
The sun dripping gold
at the hills all around
The sky as black
as space
the trees
a cape of lace.


Wolf laughs
As she hears the song
  of her children to
A moon so big
  it threatens to topple
  off the mountain.
Chips of ice
are scattered across
   the seas of space . . .
And wolf sighs
when the song is ended.
Her children hunt in the breezes and
Small wild things
rustle in the grasses;
a pounce and all is lost
A night again so bright
Moon paints black shadows,
  doorways to
  peaceful places.
Whiffling feathers cover the air
  as owl moves to glide
  across the white spaces,
  hooking a stray
  wild thing.
Wolf watches
And the night light
reflects against
the wisdom
lodged within her ageless eyes.


Rays of sunlight
turn my white cat
a crystal wisp
white on light
he tiptoes up the beam
with high designs
and settles on rainbow
his road going nowhere
a daily art
a dream eternal
to see
but not to be. . . .
Floating in space
a feather
stretching out past the stars
whiskers singed
at the edges of the galaxy
and his eartips

I wish I had more
  to give to the children --
Mend their hearts and socks
Feed their bruised egos
  and empty bellies
Brush the hurt from their souls
  and the hair from their eyes . . .
I wish to lift them high
   til their wings are strong
  and they soar as the eagle.
I wish to toss stars into their
and love in their hearts.
Set them on the pathway
of their gifts
watch them grow 
watch them go
  their own way.


A very old poem of mine - and long:

If The Snow Comes Just Let It Melt

They tell me to quit wandering
That I ought to settle down.
"The day of the tramps are done,"
They say;
"Get a job
Have a home and a family --
The best way to live."
     But look - - 
I only have about sixty more
Years to live on this old earth;
When I die
I'll settle down then
In one of two places
And I'll have to spend
The rest of eternity there.
So why can't I
While I still can
Have fun -- and learn
About life
Because Life is so full.

So why not let me wander
All over the world.

I don't cause no harm.

I got a letter yesterday;
I was living in a garage
And I found it
In a heap of old junk...
Jewelry, clothing and feathers
From some old society
That had lost a battle.
It was from some man
And it was beautiful
With fragile dying words
Like - - "Sweet heart"
"Flowers of my heart"
And more to rend my peace of mind
To make me wonder --
Is it true?
Or did he just copy
It out of some old dusty book
With carved Covers
That he found in his attic?
But when I finished
The meaningless letter
As it surely must have been
Even to him
I threw it back in the pile
Of old junk.

I came upon a peach orchard once
And I picked all day.
I made twenty bucks
And some odd coin.
I lost it all
But I didn't care
For I had gained an experience
And I lost nothing
Nothing that meant anything to me.
A farmer let me sleep in his barn
In an empty stall
And I had peaches and cream
For dinner.

The Scottish moved to Rome
And the Romans moved to Scotland
I wasn't surprised
And it didn't affect me.
But I had to pretend I wasn't Communist
Even though I wasn't.
I agreed I didn't set bombs
And I don't move
From Scotland to Rome
From Rome to Scotland.
What difference does it make to me?
I don't know whats going on.

Someday I'll run away forever
From the old world
of playboys, witches and fish,
I'll be just me
Dreaming my dreams
I'll never shovel snow
I'll just let it melt.

May the Good Lord bless you all --
Excuse me I've got to laugh.
See me in the morning
When the sun arises, 
I'll never let it set.
See me at the ocean
When the tide comes in --
It never goes out.
You'll see me
On a mountaintop maybe.
On a hillside walking
In a forest climbing trees
Eating fruits and nuts
Playing with rabbits.
But never ever find me
Shoveling snow


When the snow comes
Just let it melt.