When I was a child I remember,
there was a memory of kindness,
a sort of rite of passage,
whereby she left me with a smile.
I remember wishful then,
the forever summer nights,
she laughed outloud
and we danced as forever might.
There is a quiet reality in love,
the dawning of an understanding,
that eternally above
all other conclusions must remain.
I remember the soft dawn of summer,
a child in a constant stir,
finding my reality,
I spoke of her until the autumn.
I would today respond to a soft
reckoning of a spiritual gain,
when life becomes the real,
sort of intellectual game.
I recall tender the night sky,
when in the cold autumn breeze,
our gasps created pictures,
we lived inside our dreams.
Do you remember that time,
walking in alleys,
staying close, looking for eaves,
the water teasing our eyes,
like sweet rhythm
in a tapestry of sensuality,
garments gradual gathering
in the damp nature
of a beautiful summer rain.
We would walk around water
summer in a showery afternoon,
an already wet,
delight caress me delicious
stroll within my arms, feeling peace,
when our soaked disposition,
in rain swept eyes, lips damp,
sweet flush cheeks,
my hands can land anywhere now,
in the wet,
beauty of your abandon.
Remember when we would walk for hours,
and then the shelter,
strip off our wet garments to each other’s eyes,
dry cotton, still our arousal is in the
quiet wonder of knowing
the depth of our love goes well beyond
a rainy afternoon.
Oh, the soup, warm, waiting, hungry …
It is that feeling of never wanting to let go,
the clean, crisp, cacophony of morning song,
they’re in their shelters, the wood in throng,
we all witness the beauty that time forego.
Feel the gentle heat of a sunlight mastery
Quiet we do recognize our vulnerable
task to Nature’s plan, we then are able
To know this simple summertime legacy.
A passing season, a time when life alive
teaches our body to respect an energy
takes our lives beyond simple normalcy,
a vision, fantasy, an opportunity to thrive.
In her arms that one cool summer day,
was my heart in hers to forever stay.
When first I sat down in my morning wonder,
I think about place, and reason why,
glance to a man-made water flow in blue sky,
a forest green fills the world far beyond eye.
It is immediate always she can become my
central focus on a beautiful morning in July.
I can easily recall a time I might cry,
yet for now, sweet muse, does mind wander.
I took a picture as a way to describe this
silent peace, music sheltering the natural wave
of city traffic blends a natural green vision,
of Nature’s wonder in yet man-made design.
His search a quiet state of mind, savor the breeze
For in glance I realize why in sky I cry with ease.
a pitch black backdrop,
eased onto my couch, with window slats
open to the night air.
I listened as summer whispered,
we are giving you a good morning,
the changing season,
warm air shifts toward a gradual cooling,
we come to sing,
to welcome the next phase.
I realize suddenly in my world all good things must …
lovely mornings, lush gardens in the wood, long afternoons,
all the memories of love,
I will recall her eyes, her smile, her love,
they are always the constant in my
self assuring mind.
Her beauty does exist, sings melody in my heart,
much like the crickets song,
suggesting we are always nearby,
to give a soft and sweet routine
toward Nature’s wondrous plan.
I wonder about our plan,
and then I step back,
take your time I said to myself,
the autumn is more upon me than I would ever imagine,
listen to the breeze inside the song.
I do ponder the many faces,
oh so many hours of time,
lost on the need to recognize,
a desire to know more,
for the moment,
these eyes, maybe a smile,
certainly the extent of a hot summer day,
coffee, laptop and a little music,
and am I a part of today’s society?
Have I met the standard of approval,
a person may suggest to themselves in private,
while whisking away their latte,
perhaps a chi tea, or the coffee of the day.
We’re all here
imagining only that which we are,
in the manner of a moment capable
of grasping, while all around us,
the life of others seems to replicate the same.
At least the coffee is fresh,
beyond the ideals turned stale.
We might just sit here every day,
same chair, same glance through windows,
perhaps never to be noticed again,
at least so the mind seems to say.
i’m not ready, cried,
not at all as satisfied,