moon spoon

bask in the light of the moon

the muse who makes you swoon

this evening’s gone too soon

drink the night with a spoon

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sojourn to ten three

wilderness as far as the eye can see

out the windows of ten three

urban wilds out the other side

visible thanks to cable tram ride

the best company here with me

within the windows of ten three

fabulous food served with glee

at the restaurant at ten three

after we lunches at ten three

onto the pine-lined trails go we

great green grass swaths between rows of trees

in other months dressed as slopes to ski

mountain, trees, and skies so clear

wind and our footsteps is all we hear

so grateful are we to have this nature

preserved for all with air so pure

we see no bears, pumas, or bobcats

but watch as squirrels and birds have spats

precious forests and peaks with trails

we witness and protect where birds prevail

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dorian the gray

batten down the hatches

and hatten down in batches

before the hateful snatches

your patterns and your patches

hopefully this twisty nasty picture

wind and rain in heinous mixture

that wicked dorian the gray

kept at bay, our lives not swept away

getting the fifth degree, categorical

is not a message allegorical

it is water, air, and temperature

yet these can sure cause quite a stir

we hope we steer clear of the swirl

the smarmy swarmy unwelcome twirl

i hope we weather this storm

like others who’ve through here torn

this impertinent pestilent child

after that tortured soul is styled

may any battering be mild

as land dissipates winds wild

cast off Dorian the Gray

and others who come to play

two more months of the season

hurricanes, such stormy treason

we hope that the waters abate

across every coastal state

we pray the winds dissipate

that this is not a storm of fate

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the words

they call to me




begging to be written

i must heed their calls


of people

who do not exist

echo in my ears


a steeple

i cannot resist

strike within me fears


who weep the will

whose jot persists

pleading urgent tears


begging to be born

writ upon the page

from a notebook torn


i can see them now

dancing on mind’s stage

wanting to come out

light and darkness

blend with voice

from seeds of sound

and light they sprout

they demand

that they be seen

beyond brain’s screen

and heard from in

a stream of words

i wake halfway

my thoughts they stray

and mingle with the dream

but then

i wake again

realize the voices

their whispered choices

all were real

the first waking

was the dream

i was immersed

within the stream

as this onion

deeper peels

these people

slowly it reveals

the voices

all rehearsed

born within

from memories

each one steals

the visions

of future passed

ripple through the past

reflected voices

all their joy says

echoes by so fast

all their murmurs

are not jurors

which faint dreams shall last

what leaks forth

from these scenes

within the heart is clasped

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consumed by crying

fierce teardrops flying

desert petrichor

wafts up from wet floor

the trees heave their sighs

as moonless night cries

patient cool cacti

raise arms to the sky

dark desert downpour

upon summer’s shore

hear the night cry

farewell to july

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tears in rain

your tears in rain

with us still remain

beyond Batty

beyond all your roles

you leave us ever

with a clear refrain

your quips as Lothos

playing strings of pathos

doused in hairspray

and a flaming cross

a vampyre’s humor

is never lost

your angels and demons

danced with doves

your cardinal sin

weeps like your violin

your abel saves cain

and lets rain explain

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gateway guardian

i watch the guardian at the gate

who ushers trespassers to their fate

between the keep

and the ditch that’s deep

while I pass with foul export

he stops and gives a brief report

a messenger arrives too late

for the next transport he must wait

the guardian puts them to sleep

and cocoons them with thread to weep

i pass back into the fort

the guardian makes no retort

the guardian finishes their date

preserved until their time to sate

i wander past them with a heap

my own collection from which to reap

i hear the guardian’s tiny snort

laughing at my catch, and my sport

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