I sail beyond a crystal sea
and they still ask what gives?
farm tractors pull the Christmas floats
such is our history

In those moments
when, pirate like,
my soul captures me,
I know that I know love

Bipolar

The lull of ancient drums,
the place
where everywhere is one
dear old crooked lane
and candles are just stoplights
that burn into the past
it's such a marmalade
with reality a dream
and dream the road away

And roots do grow again
remembering
the clay with bones
still under plow as if
redemption
is just a field of corn
harvested in October

Alive, around, on
a road over the mountain
So there! I've traveled!

The latch key is--
humans being humans--
so starch the shirt, iron
the tie, tonight we travel out.
But don't step into the abyss.
That's too far out.

With grace, beauty,
my panther leaps
around his mountain
as the radio plays Beethoven.

Let her travel,
let the cool sun
follow her. She will
sprinkle gold coins
until winter blows.

It'd still the sun
though yesterday
it began oranging
up the mountains
on a cloudy day.

My belly fat as the one
on my Buddha statute
or it's as fat as the full moon
either way I howl...with laughter

Stuck in September.
knowing that I'll never know,
we plant Mums.

Copper days
shiny as new pennies
this September purse
filled too with silver moons

Septembers' leaves fall gently
not so Octobers'
with its' tricks and treats....

Love,
like the hummingbird,
sometimes flies backward.
As for me, I move forward.

Accidently broke my Mom's
orange cup--it was her favorite
and part of my inheritance.
Carefully and without comment,
I pick up the pieces- as she
would have done.

Pay your coin,
sit quickly down
the ferryman gives
a handshake as we
go round and round

Six Years and a Day

Spots of camouflage float
like funny bones and fire
hoses still float like cobras
today, yesterday, and tomorrow

9/11

There is no light
there is nothing
so awaken darkness
even a dirge is music
to those in pain

The so silent phone
is writing a poem
guided only by my hand

Leaving pansies out in front,
I shop for clouds, little white ones
that dance,play the fiddle,
cure the sick, clouds that
never,never die. Then there are
the gray and black clouds that
reek of cheap perfume, clouds
that somehow I use to cure
myself of the white ones.

Trick or Treaters

Turnips resting in winter,
the mind will cry
about my lathered balls
I keep proving
I keep on proving that
the razor's edge is the
fruit of my balls...so
stick around, soon some goblin
will come or some scarecrow
will flower...stick around
pick the contest winner,
stick around to hear their song
which is really our song...

Green the Hibiscus
Labia hides their pinkness
Whoops! Mixed Metaphors...

Cool September sun
you will still rise in the east
with or without me...