It is late autrumn in America
Human kindness has fallen with the leaves
Wind of change blusters to ride atop promises of Winter
Bringing a bitterness that won't melt with snow
Lingering through seasons yet to come

A Dollop

In the stillness of private reflections are filtered desires
secretly spun and woven into pure longing
a fabric earnestly crafted into the simplest form of sincerity
held until it is at least nearly presentable to you.

You, a carton of never ending ice cream
wherein a dollop satisfies so fully
in different flavors of the same love
covered and shared by many
so complete that a spoonful's measure
lasts forever.

Smiles

Interludes of intermittent smiles spot the cloudy skies like sun rays
They often weaken quickly,
 unsustainable, as they all are.
We dare not discount them on such grounds,
especially the involuntary ones
recognized as genuine by grateful onlookers.

Sudden ones splash faces
with a flash of teeth,
while others slowly widen corners of mouths,
so easily discerned in their uniform spontaneity.

I saw one aloft a windswept dress,
uncovered by  breeze-blown strands of long hair
streaming from the jubilant pace of its host;
it was a delightful sight.

Self Absorbed

Heartbeats throb,
Echoing off the walls of my insularity
Bouncing back
on ME!

The ONE
all encompassing,
self-edifying
soul.

Hands and Eyes

Hands  resting on the table
Faces locked with eyes
Seized in a moment flashed
with the quickness of flies
A bold and darting move
to test a grasping clasp
resulting in a gently broken flee
revealing what the eyes had sought
but not prepared to see
Awkward hands rescind in what a set mistook
A retreat lapsed from a gesture made,
Eyes not knowing where to look.
 

The Game! The Game!

The Game! The Game!
What is there BUT the game?
The fields and courts house the eternal imbalance
where ambitions aggress
among lines, posts, and nets.

Where sighs express
the murmur of a tie
deflecting the tally mark
from the face of sudden death

like an ir regular heartbeat.

The Game! The Game!
What is there BUT the game,
where dreams are chased
holding only a thread
of that last endeavor as merit?

A Stone Unturned

  No one is even glimpsing among the graveled chips of crust today. I don't know how long I've been cracked into this tiny piece; but obscured and unnoticed in the randomness of placement is better than being kicked around.

  It is usually the case when your tarnished side is up, leaving you vulnerable. I've accepted that my lackluster doesn't have the appeal of the natural beauty in resplendent gems and sea shells  The only hope lies in the never-ending winds and currents  of perpetual browsing; otherwise you submit to erosion. So, you lay in wait like an orphan longing to be adopted. A linear fracture line might attract an artist's eye.

  In the dream it happened.

 This time two worlds didn't collide and neither one collapsed; they eclipsed. To rest in the hand of flesh was vibrant, and the release into a warm pocket was comforting. The encounter was more than remembered occasions of mindless elevations into thoughtless hand squeezes before being hurled into a different community, usually into a body of water if not striking a tree or landing into forlorn foliage.

  The shock of hearing a voice speak to me was weird,but it was a new sensation. The lingering thumb on my gash made me feel as if I had a breath to draw, leaving me as  surprised as a drunk  prostitute's reaction to a brief smooch after a service rendered.

   As any other element awakened by the sun's power to close dreams. I'm content to have remembered this one and hope that someday I might even become preserved in a Klimt mosaic.