Aimless Ambling

XII. Is it not sad         that people can see what they wish and hear what they choose But feeling is beyond control?

XI. Wherein lies merit Does it stand out to be seen by all Does it hide, waiting to be sought out Or does it, in full view         somehow escape detection?

X. Music filles the air         and voices lay under it Subtle flashes blink off and on         hardly noticed by the mass                 (Engrossed in itself)                         unaware of the sun shining brightly through the clouds.

IX. Who knows the voice of the wind or the face of the night sky Do they also know the language its speaks or see the tired lines on its face?

VIII. Poetry is life in a capsule insulated from time it grows Once freed, it spreads like fog obscuring Now Covering everything in times gone by times to come Times we wish were now or know and hope will never come Reality so distilled would shock our systems And so, we are contented to have but a taste of what we would have/would have not Be now.

VII. My pain is an abandoned friend embracing all the tighter for having left At its return, I wonder why I missed it Reminiscence of lost things is not always well placed Sometimes things lost are best gone Their absence making room for something better All glitter and guile Yesterday’s good thing pales in the light of the new day The tarnished glaze softens in time The harsh light that once threatened tears its scar, now healed Only serves to strengthen.

VI. Calm, cool water flows through my veins The surf, a massage, relaxes all it touches (all of me) The waves flow through the air spreading music Comfort without cost without price, priceless Would that it could be sold Would that I could give it away.

V. I’ve done so little (it seems ( it is )) But what can I do? Boundaries set so long ago still hold true and cannot be denied Time is too short (who could get anything done?) It is though a poor excuse Friendship is the truest gift (given truly) and deserves more than this.

IV. Spoken words are an amazing thing The right one in the right place can bring back the sun in the dead of night The wrong one casts the whole world into a deep abyss And sometimes, any word is pure, clear, beautiful music that resonates within my soul (especially when said with a smile) The sun rises again to end the thousand year night The abyss fades away and I’m filled again with light and lifted up And I know, even Hell would be a joy so long as I can hear that voice again I’ve hope upon hope but when will the sun rise again?

III. My happiness drains from me (what little I had) and I am a parched sponge The fierce sunlight is an oven I cannot escape Airborne dust leaves fine red welts stinging The desert is scarcely home but I can find no other The sun is no friend but I can find no more faithful companion The winds of change hold no comfort (Only pain) But behind them whispers Hope.

II. I call to it asking it to rise But my efforts are met with no response You would think your own heart at least would pay you heed.

I. How does the wallpaper (So long just a background) emerge to be seen just itself I don’t know . . . I wish I did . . . The wallpaper is witness to everything It sees the scenes It hears the voices It feels left out How do you make a mark when you are an image How do you speak when you are an ear How do you feel when you are only a thing But the wallpaper does feel And the wallpaper has something to say And the wallpaper is a sight to behold when seen for itself Standing still too long cramps muscles And if you don’t speak then when you do what do you say how will it sound And how will you look when you are what’s seen rather than just being an accent for what was so long held in front of you?

I was recently thinking about love. About what it is and what it is not. Most people think that love is some thing that happens to you.  But I don't think that it is. Attraction happens to you.  Lust happens to you.  Like happens to you. But love does not just happen.  Love is a choice. Love is when you decide that someone else is more important than you.  That their safety, well-being, comfort, happiness, etc is more important than yours.  That if you can do something to increase those things for that other person - even (sometimes especially) if doing so will decrease your own measure of those same things - then you will try to do so. Love is cleaning up after someone else.  Not because you can't stand for things to be messy - but because it will make it so that the other person won't have to do it. Love is going to work every morning (even when you hate your job) so that the other person won't have to (or at least won't have to as much). Love is a

Zero. When it started, there was nothing and they were alone So the three aspects split, began to talk and language was born as well as thought But there was nothing to talk about and so imagination was born Until then, time may as well have not started because time is change and the aspects were endless and nothing had changed Now though, time began and imagination filled the void with possibility These possibilities were few though since the aspects knew only themselves The aspects toyed with imaginings of mixtures of themselves in different proportions and the full range of possibility was fleshed out Still knowing only itself, the aspects grew and split again for no boundaries existed only possibility and this was within it I AM!!! And seeing the void, the aspects saw what was not and difference was born And possibility grew, because now not only was what was possible, but so was what was not Unbeknownst to the aspects they

The poetry that I write comes out in groups. It is formed as individual poems. Each one complete to itself (some rather short though), but loosely connected to a number of others. A big inspiration that caused me to bother with writing down all of those words that wandered through my head was a piece written by Harlan Ellison called "Eidolons" that was included in the Fantasy and Science Fiction magazine.  Each 'eidolon' captured a moment (for me anyway) - like a verbal snapshot.  To this day, I treasure the experience of reading them.  And my collections are my version of creating verbal snapshots. They are meant to be read in order - so I will post them in order.  And in some cases, the number that I give them matters and means something.  Usually that is only true when I give something the number zero. I will also post a whole series before moving onto the next. I wouldn't want to break up the families. The first set that I wrote - I also titled &

‘From my deep well of loneliness I will pray for you Because I can tell you’re good.’ (from Barbarella) Edges play a greater role in life than most would notice every event has two edges (leading and trailing) but only one level Edges are the points of transition They bind perception: the edges of a table, of a wall, of a moment Respect is not so common as it should be So much is taken for granted that only the blatantly excellent or poor is notices Value is measured in dollars, and values follow suit Greed is good and truth is optional Everything now is programmed: response, television, thought The cliche’ of nothing being new is being made truth Newness cannot be accounted for and innovation creates new variables Stability exists only in a state of stagnation The comforts of home are only comfortable so long as you can count on them remaining the same in your absence Life is not funny, ever Laughter now, instead of being prompted by nov

I always had a problem with trying to force my poetry into the strict frameworks that are often thought to be what makes poetry - poetry. Forced rhyming and meter seemed to make my own work seem forced and unnatural. That is not to say that I think that the work written by others that does conform to more traditional poetry formats seems forced or unnatural.  It is only that for myself - invoking a reaction in my reader (an experience) is what I aspire to do. Sometimes there are rhymes and sometimes there is some metering.  If there is, then it is usually just a happy accident. And as far as the meaning of my poetry...You are free to ask.  But for the most part, the meaning that I intended is whatever happens inside of you. Art should not dictate.  It should draw out its meaning from its audience. Hopefully, what I write will add more to your life than the time it takes to read it. At least, that is what I want my art to do.

Flowing Notes changing from one moment to the next or carried on Controlled by a movement of the wrist or the position of fingers dive through barriers to reach the soul Controlling moods Touching even the deepest hidden heart Bringing joy to the disheartened or pulling the over elated back to earth