It came upon us
like a slow summer.
Aged and full of lights
from years past.
Without depth or distinction.
We heard nothing but
smothered squawks.
From the last of the
social media poets.
Yet, still smoldering
with passion.
I sang an old song
of non-attachment.
And walked on,
far out of sight.

How to speak the truth
and not yield to anger?
Now that is a challenge.
So, I hold my pen in my hand.
Writing a few words, that
prevent the anger and
pain from leaving me.
Talking to a few who
seem to know the way.
Never allowing
the wrath to grow.
Then letting go
of the mind’s wrongs.
The next day I am
always glad to see.
​

Old words….. new words.
For some they all
pile up together.
Huddled and cramped.
For me, they are
a life – giving breeze.
Blown across a thousand
far-fetched places.

I thought,
could it be summer now?
But I am not
searching for hope.
Or those wistful
days from long ago.
Just for what
is around me.
And a pen
for spilling words.
Aimed at
finding the way,
from all directions.
​

In the spring haze.
A thousand birds.
But always the
wild geese are calling me.
“Do not brood on things”
Now I know the goal.
To make fine music
as long as I can.

Bathed with the
courage to be disliked.
For which sometimes
you gather no flowers.
A few fragrant of words
cut through the void.
Each one not to offend.
But like a cool wind
on a summers day.
A joyful exaltation
of letting go of such
painful days.

Over the unreturning happiness.
And beyond the streets
cold with indifference.
There is a place where nothing
can be added or subtracted.
A place within me.
That is shining and shining.
Until all there is left to do
is count the stars.

Laden with memories
I was drinking coffee.
Thinking there is nothing
that can be done.
I thought of you.
Insisting on not
repeating the old ways.
Such great passion
in your voice.
The sound of
courage is sweet.
As if the birds
and the butterflies
are freed from
frustrated hands.

Sometimes I dwell
in a special place.
With good coffee,
a pen and thoughts
without care.
But always I am brought
back to a million affairs.
Few of the heart.
More caught in the snare
of dragons and show ponies.
Chanting their way
through silent voids.
It is a good job the tracks of
our creations, often disappear.

A song of the present
or a song of the past.
Which to choose?
I prefer the unwritten now.
Washed down with the
sweet wine of love and friendship,
from the few who see the way.
Not the stern life from before.
Just adding days together.
Forestalling the bad to come.
And hiding the light of each day.
​