It takes so long to let her live,

From way down deep, of herself, she shall give.

Innocent, unaware, helped with most care.

My love or my hell, to be done so well.

For weeks I sat and thought of her.

The words I write for her do say,

My love through night and through the day,

You surely live a lonely way.

You visit for a moment,
Accept a breath of hospitality,
Then dash away again.
You share your company briefly.

But in that time, oh,
The magic you bring.
From tiny eggs to instars
To gloriously patterned wing.

I watched you hatch and crawl,
Grow, shed and wriggle.
You change your dress. Your
New look makes me giggle.

You give me joy and delight
With your aerial ballet.
My royal friend, magician,
Harlequin at play,

Sometimes, when I sit down to write,
a blank piece of paper in front of me,
I see beautiful words already there.

But it was always going to be you
who helped me put them on the page.

The candle burning on the mantle ledge
Flames dancing on this darkened night,
Remind me of the two of us in love
While we danced 'till morning's light.

The picture hanging in the hallway
Others neatly framed and on display,
Show us living life for all it's worth
I remember every fun filled day.

I wonder what went so wrong
Was it me or was it you?
I know there's blame to share
But I'll always wish I knew.

spry buck analogous to energizing bunny
jump/kickstarted procreation ruckus.

Home on the range
cacophony quite absurd
Play Boy Bunny herd
and felt ingratiatingly inured,
nevertheless colony or nest
of doe eyed demoiselles
stewed over their
kit and caboodle being cannibalized
gourmet chef “coney” or “lapin”
delicacy the magic word.

I know that I might never be
Anything as beautiful as a tree
I know that I might never find
That special thing called 'peace of mind'.

I know no matter how hard I try,
That I will never, ever fly
I know that deep within my heart
My life could stop, I could fall apart.

I know that way down, deep inside
The child within did run and hide
I know the fear that's deep within
Will show itself, no matter where I've been!

Went off for hair raising shindig
donning noggin of villager in Nigg
(historic county of Ross-shire,
historic region of Ross
and Cromarty, northeast
coast of Scotland).

Somehow postiche crossed the big pond
once belonged to magician,
who could create static electricity waving wand
across artificial tresses colored blond,
which wizard in disguise did abscond
with priceless peruke
(archaic word for periwig)
cuz said luxurious locks
once belonged to Dolly Parton.

So profoundly weary am I, daily defiled,
with the sludge and garbage dumped
into my lakes, rivers and oceans, and
beaches, with broken glass in the sand.

You start careless fires in my woods,
after camping under many a protective tree.
Again, you do not pick up your trash,
plainly you have no respect or love for me!

Fires, oh the raging fires out of control.
Started by a cigarette dropped in dry grasses,
or the campfire hastily put out after use
under surface waits for a gulp of air and gasses.

I try to look into my chest
And all I see is night,
A lack of what I think is best,
And void of all that's right.
I'm seeking a spark,
I'm seeking a heart,
And yet I have no sight.

You try to look into my chest
And there you see a light,
A presence of the good that's best,
A fire that's warm and bright.
You're seeing a spark,
You're seeing a heart,
And telling me your sight.

In a very close moment,
I touched the striations near her waist
for the first time and she began to cry.
The marks, from the birth of her son.

She’d given him up before we met.
She had been in some trouble,
and made difficult decisions
that were still exacting a price
she couldn’t stop paying for.

To her, the lines were resentful,
and would never let her forget
the only physical reminder she had left.