What does it take to draw, sketch and paint
Whatever it is
They got it
I ain’t
You first sought my trembling hand in perfectly sown, soft-honed land.
When our lips quiver gripped with virgin steam by an aloof stream,
time flared our romantic, teenage passion through forest-spiced air.
We lost logic under starry skies devoted to our sighs.
Years did not fray my feelings for our time in youth's twilight rays.
I oft wonder if peaked, bare recall tenderly takes you there ....
Are we human.? Or are we counters? In America ( are you ?) Red or blue.? Or to
God are you true.? The two colours above
Are just parts of your flag..' perhaps symbolic? Of division of a whole.? Item..
Same all over the world..What do
We need, From Australia to Eygpt?
I don't see it as hatred and greed.' billions
Spent on death.' By those who plead
For the poor.? NGO insanity..I say I
Accept the spiels from today; no more.!)
Someday,
I'm going out west,
Dad would often say,
Where the eagles build their nests.
Daddy was born in the south.
I never heard how far he went north,
Nor if he ever ventured to the east.
But I know that he never moved west.
Perhaps it was just a dream,
Like coffee mixed with cream;
Like a high-powered muse,
Never intended to be used.
If I could speak to daddy now,
I would be very specific.
I would share with him how,
I moved all the way to the pacific.
they travel from house to house
two car links behind the Amazon driver
picking up each package seconds after he drops it off
they are often captured on video
sometimes news people play this and ask for an identity
are their relatives laughing as they open their presents?
Freedom
from seeking
is what is sought
but not recognized
in what is found~
That's the path
often taught
but may suggest
what is sought
is not seeking
and not
freedom~~
We see you often, Dad.
Joe and I.
I do not have as great a look as he does.
He says he sees your entire body.
You are wearing your favorite plaid shirt.
Makes sense to me.
That’s the shirt you were wearing in the car
When I was heading home the day you supposedly died.
I remember what I said to you.
I said “Your job is to keep the deer from jumping in front of the car”.
We passed seven deer that night.
Everyone was at the side of the road.
Standing as if at attention.
Probably to honor you, the deceased.
I hope they are showing you a good time in heaven.
You are my power father and deer are my power animal.
They gave me comfort that day.
As did you, a man who had “supposedly” died.
Being with me in that car reassured me that death is nothing.
I will always be grateful you did this for me, Daddy.
A controversial one.' Long John Laws indeed could stun.' Clipped flinty tones He'd chew
No bones, never met him.' Wonder would
We have got on.? I beleive he was for the
Con-vid, but he was steeped in more honest; times.' In those middle ranges, there
Honesty was pretty much full time, i think
I lived its tail end.' Which balanced me quite
Well, enough to admire, yet know he was
Vulnerable as well.' So i regret the imposition, placed upon all Aussie folks'
Every straight grained, lover of better, for
We at are our best, when we share with mates.' So I reckon if we meet in heaven
Everything will be grand.' We'll gas round a
Golden barbie.' Where adventures we'll put
To plan.'
Under our skies, stars that often share a common moon,
My poetry reveals its mystery with a shocking flair from the moon.
I told those who still don't know, with my eternal and hideous luck,
That on this blooming Earth, I am a worthy hero but superfluous.
To friends baptized in wine, like a jaded, local, and ethylic Saint Sisyphus,
I carried their joys in a goblet, while my gaze idly wandered.
Not even in their drunkenness did I find the disappointment I sought,
Among people who eternally carry their boulder, confusing it with their own shrine.
When we occupy any grave, as if we were just a thought,
Numbing the times with the pleasure of death, the only wealth on this earth,
The shadow of my loneliness, pitiful and undeniable, uninterrupted,
Perfect tears, that lazily lie in my eye lids, round, uninterrupted.
Even from the sleep of dreams, looking at them inversely, longing takes shape,
Forming from my soul a new outcast, not too far from the moment.
A zoological park of frozen motion, where everything is petrified,
Animals more alive than people, yet stuffed, in an endless time.
i fell in love with you, like falling asleep— slowly, then all at once.
my heart warms everytime i look at you, my gaze lingers, each time you walk past.
now i find myself remembering you at every chance.
all the love songs and late night scenarios, they seem to be masked with thoughts of you.
though, i cant help but ask myself, am i helplessly in love or is it just a fleeting phase?
Clouds often go unnoticed, but they are so much like us,
soft and distant travelers, floating through a sky full of unknown thoughts,
meeting like strangers, carried by the same wind of chance,
staying for a while, then quietly parting, without promises or storms.
They do not ask the sky to stop, nor beg the sun to linger longer,
even in their parting, they shine for a moment, then continue to move anyway,
perhaps alone, but never lonely, carrying rain and light in their souls,
changing shape but never losing the grace that defines them.
And maybe that's all we need—to move, to meet,
to let go and rise again, for life is a balance to be learned,
to be strong while feeling fragile, to hold heavy thoughts like dark clouds,
to find peace in solitude and yet rise, constant and sure, regardless of the sky.
Because life means learning to shine even in moments of parting,
to embrace fragility and maintain the elegance of change within you,
to float through the winds of countless dreams and not get lost in the tumult,
to find your path, to find your peace, and to rise, no matter what the sky may bring.
Every so often
sometimes in life, we make a path that we realize was made by others to trap us into doing what they want
it feels silly to be fooled, but the ones that fooled us didn’t do so out of maize which makes it difficult to correct
when a person dedicated to a rustic life, a dog, and writing his thoughts of the day he nevertheless dreams of a big city life with a throng of friends
when this moment occurs, he can easily be led astray by people whose agenda and purpose that is not what you were here for
the dog that had been beside you for 13 years died, the walk in the forest becomes a memory lane the grief stops one from seeing the beauty
In season, sonnets often find their bloom
by trailing lesser forms towards the light;
a patient wait’s reward is greater room,
and thus they are content to just sit tight.
But once a way appears, they make their move
and quickly seize the opportunity.
Iambs, awkward at first, begin to groove
and make connections naked eyes scarce see.
Then bursting forth, the buds now put on flesh,
give weight to what was formerly a hint.
With careful pruning, parts are truly meshed,
can best express their purposeful intent.
When poets cultivate a love’s pursuit,
the sonnet bears the sweetest of the fruit.
I think of you quite often, when the rain
Falls gently through the tender autumn air,
And every leaf, half golden, whispers pain,
A fleeting sadness I could almost wear.
I think of you when twilight softly gleams
Along the river’s silver-threaded edge,
Where sunset mingles with forgotten dreams,
And night is but a whispered, quiet pledge.
I think of you when morning breaks the night,
The first blush in the sky, a bloom of rose,
Reminds me of your laughter, pure, and bright—
The sound that every dawn within me knows.
I think of you when stars begin to glow,
Like promises of peace upon the sea,
And in their quiet sparkles, I still know
You are the light that shines, though far from me.
I think of you when wind moves through the trees,
Its haunting melody a soft refrain,
That echoes memories across the seas,
Of times we lived, in joy, without a stain.
I think of you in silence, when the moon
Is hanging like a wish upon the sky,
A whispered thought that fades away too soon—
But lingers, like a soft, unspoken sigh.
Luther had a tendency to write with prolixity
using six adjectives when two would do
there were no breaks in his text
his missives were written as a brick pedestal
solid from side to side, top to bottom
Many who read the words of other poets skipped his
preferring to spend their time on smaller less wordy missives
Oftentimes less is more
in poetry as well as art.
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