Mornings

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Morning glows with faintest hue,
Mourning goes slowly
With suffering anew,

Morning is another gift I know,
Mourning is heavier than
Drifting snow.

I mourn the loss of love so strong,
And wonder of the morning song,
I wish for things which cannot come,
I mourn for change and still
Feel numb,

Morning is full of all the new,
The hope of something we longed,
To do.

To love, to live to
Call our own,
I mourn in morning but still,
Alone.

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Love

key-west-butterfly-conservatory-480x270Love.

A butterfly in early spring sunshine,
Lightly flapping golden wings,
Delicate but strong,
Beautiful beyond words.

Love.

Cold wind blowing over the ridge,
Insistent.
Bending grasses long dormant,
Somehow waking the life lived,
Calling over and over your
Secret name.

Love.

Rain in the night,
Lightly tapping its rhythm,
Growing stronger until the sound,
Deafens even your deepest fears,
Turning to symphony tuned
To the harmony of your soul.

Love.

Late afternoon light,
Washing the hues of blue dusk,
Brown glow turning pink,
Finally showing those faint memories,
Of all things good and
Faithful.

Love does not die,
Instead it lives, breathing
Slowly, steadily as though
To carry your heart on wings,
Of butterflies.

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Flat dimensions

Dreaming in colors brilliant, like fruits,
But then we remember little, right?
Only slumbers fitful pursuit
Slipping between the long night,

After we smoke our morning sticks,
Laughing at the flighty scenes,
But inwardly knowing how the mind tricks,
Us into revealing fears drawn up as dreams.

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Oh my love

Oh my love, so long so long,
Among the living reeds we lay,
Alone and long upon,
The graying blanket shade.

When you rose above my chest,
I stiffened as though stone.
When you took me inward, yes,
I knew my heart was gone.

This is why those alive,
Know of those long dead,
Hear the still, cold voices,
Calling in a somber dread,

Staring up from blanket cool,
I ask what fate for these,
What punishment so cruel,
For lover’s secret disease.

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Beachin

Her pink breast ripened by the sun,
I only stared all the hot day,
Smoking dull blunts in the wind,
Drinking the cold champagne away,

Down along the coast life slows,
Nothing seems to move,
Flesh is the worldly current,
Sex is the jazzy midnight groove,

And all the while we fight,
Like alley cats dug in on the wall,
Sometimes I think death would be alright,
But pleasure stays the fall.

Loving deep into hot night,
Mornings find another gear,
Slower and more intense the sight,
When alcohol and dreams summon fears,

All month it turns as the wheel,
Grinding us asunder,
Finishing, a punishment so real,
Intense the lightning, the thunder.

Oranges and eggs, toast of tar,
Coffee black but sweet,
Whisky and cigarettes by star,
Sweat has stained the cool sheets.

We’ll return at last,
Stupid working class slobs,
But living the recent past
For all the other mobs,

Go there, see the white foam
Feel the breeze raise your skin,
Hold her hand in gathered gloam,
And know, at last, love again.

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Silent night

We are but the window in which the world passes,
And in our reflections lie dreams of other lives,
So longed for that the world outside fades
Leaving us only to talk with the shadow of ourselves.

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Times

The times have ticked along like babies,
Spiders I mean, bursting from the tightly spun
Bundle of rounded web, a cocoon of motherly
Making for thousands of them – the times.

Going off in all directions, little eight
Legged times furiously scurry – for where?
What will be their lots, their plights, the
Fury of their fights and flights to live!

Even now they are dying; lives running down,
Yet still running onward without this knowing,
Spilling over the edges of the wooden bench
Spinning tiny getaway threads as they drop away.

Times go forth so purposeful, and I know not
Which to squish and which to grant favor,
(Randomness should hold forth among Gods),
Who am I to count death and life in choosing.

You hold to my hand and we waste time,
Giant ferris wheel turns in the night, lights
Aglow as lovers legs dangle and hearts are
Tied tightly in their cocoons of time turning.

A collection of arachnids which scurried
Safely into quiet corners for spinning these
New webs of memories, catching small creatures,
Granting no favor in drinking the blood of life.

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