The delicate taste of harrow

There is a tick at the back of my mind

the canny unruly and ahead un-behind

and the frost among the lilies lie

with ashes and spit among the blind,

to what may ask becomes of them

when the haunting and furrows have been fed

the skin a crawl over depths and halls

crying souls ease from out their bed,

its the waking of these that are so blind

too late to hear among their calling

when the depth of tears are fluttering

and the words as embers adrift in falling,

standing hear I remember the well

where we sat at the eve on the morrow

hands entwined as vines upon lattice

filling grapes by the glass with sorrow.

The minds hallway

Not every light is illumination

For some its a darker deep

where things are lurking on every whim

and the quill records every creep,

a mind full of static resonation

always swimming in shadowed air

sights and sounds of unseemly

here the author partakes of the rare,

but nothing is free that is gleamed

and the price too is quite steep

for every word that is written

the shadows in return get their reap.

Choose wisely

And why, the little beetle asked

does all the sea life whale

where do all the birds go

and why do humans sail?

The goose looked down to him

and shook her head in thought

its always the same my little one

everything is for naught.

See all the things you question

fill your mind with wrinkled webs

encouraging you and losing time

till all the flow is dead;

so hear me when I say to you

you’ll have nothing left to worry

because I’ll make it all just go away

and eat you in a hurry.

The color of Rose

The flowers seemed to brighten up and sing

Doo do-do, doo do-do, be bauda-bee

I could feel the lightness in my stride

as I moved along the flora path

trees were snapping to a cool breeze

and the clouds were all a bobbing

my skip moved on as I smiled along

children were shining in rich color

with monkey bars where they fell

and passerby’s looking with corner eyes

to see who can this be, doo ba-dee


to the rhythm

of the Jazz.

Timid old sole

Sometimes you sit and think

is this a reading upon my mind

and if it is just that or not

then I will need to find remind,

but the words they carry on

like a lodged song to the brain

swimming in my consciousness

as the kissing of spring rain,

and far away to the detriment

preciously upon the drape

it sits in tender scent

dripping from out the gate,

wandering into solitude

through the scattered open view

falling through the winding doors

that lead from out the shoe.

The bay of morrow peak

I saw the paint

sweet Jean Marie,

there was fauna on the vines

tears were strewn to the rivers

and clouds all broke from sun shine,

brushes all danced within colors

hues in shades of strain

the moon facing all delights

and daylight harboring pain.


Tiny strokes of little blends

puffy skies of woven lament,

I saw you there my sweet Marie

under crowds and chaotic light

above songs in bright delight

between the stars up close

and the ones way out of sight.


Your fingers moved in gentle might

where your heart was in a song

and the mind was deep within its flight

but the woe was much to strong,

and the pull lulled you asunder.


Still shines the glitter of your pave

where your feet are still in wonder

great visions lost in after thought

and the treads of sullen blunder;

tis here my darling Jean Marie

I find you as my painting

hanging graceful upon the nigh,

where here upon the flowered wall

in all its creepy crawling

the tones of shades a bleeding

at the silence of your calling.


I’ll hear you now from the end of time

reaching through your veil

harboring lonely lullabies

as the sun is set to sail;

beauty has never been so lost

as the song of my sweet Marie

like a dream wrought out upon the page

or a scene that was meant to be.

Upon golden heights

The artful eye ever within its golden cage

study all the trimming seen out upon the day

creating perfect rhythm with each unfolding stage

allowing tormented beauty to swing and to play

as a nightmare in tones upon the turning page

stabbing at the canvass the beauty it must slay

twisting and turning as the wand of a mage

but the gold is still a cage today and everyday.