I journey often to faraway places;
many anew, others revisited.
My travels are spent with
treasured friends
rare and unique—
life is clever with good friends around us.

My favorite places are like a second home
where colorful words bleed from artists’ souls
who build their worlds for me—
a house of beauty,
kind and free
across a rustic bridge perhaps,
beyond an orchard way
where fever-pitch is not a storyline,
so often used by soulless playwrights today.

My first-run journeys take me like a child,
seeing the world with new eyes—
embracing and holding it tight—
letting the soft caress of purpose stir me like a lover in the night.
And aren’t all new journeys like making love?
The romance, the thoughtfulness, and the generous passion—
they’re all part of the foreplay
that tickles our senses to rollercoaster climaxes
and breathless denouements.


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A Quick Revelation About Me


I see radical light,
shape and shadow—
our night sun and day moon
know the blood sky,
the bone wind,
the muscle and flesh rain
on earth-weight traps and prisons where  a slippery slope is built too high
on a circle of madness,
which I journey to often,
needing companionship
when I’m alone
and feeling suddenly small
and weak,
caught in snares and detentions,
frightened to an undesirable conclusion when I sink too low.


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In The Park (Where You Died)


In the park where you died,
I remember your face
and the place where I cried in the rain,
calling your name,
grasping at your ghost
and tasting the last kiss you gave me.

Now the ground where you fell
recovers in the shattered daylight
and reignites my weakened flame.
You live in my mind’s embrace—
a heartland where memories are eternal.

Do you launch rainbows now?
Do you fill the sky with sunbeams and butterflies?
I think you do in your ashes to ashes and dust to dust way.
You are the breeze,
the wind,
the sky hugging the land—
dusk in winter,
flowers in summer,
the constant beat of light and dark.

You come to me in every breath of the wind
caressing me now and forever,
stirring the wheat
before bringing the rain
that weeps like the tears I shed for you
in the park
where you died.


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Night falls swiftly on us—
our lives are a flash in the sinking sun,
ten thousand years of rebounded vibrations—
I call it life but you call it hell.

You steer my sight to the setting sun and tell me
that it’s evening for us all—
the night is silence:
no more color,
no Hawaiian girls dancing—
all the knots and softness are gone from the day.

I retreat my gaze—
you were wild and ripe for life
in your short and raging glee,
now you stare at darkness and lament
that when we’re dead
no one invites us over for a drink.
No one sees the dirt beneath our nails,
or the dust that fills our throats,
or the ghosts that we’ve become.

When we are dead,
even the stones go on without us.

I promise to remember you,
if that will bring back a spark in your heart,
if only for a taste of what you mean to me.
You’ll live in me like the joyous songs of birds
rising in my soul,
overflowing when I think of you,
then passing when I follow you
into the lasting hug of this old earth.


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