cajole monsoon clouds shower

mercy on parched earth.

Lark’s spring twitter tweet

torments lonely shy Raven,

memory bitter sweet

 Smitten by Autumn

wind, leaves dance in a circle.

Hush contemplation

Intoxicated

by the Fall spirit, crisp leaves

stagger to the ground.

The Quake

Death surfs seismic waves

hopeful eyes, mournful cries, calm

under concrete graves.

As life enters fiery flame

blue moon stands silent in shame.

Illusion

Distorted vision -

color blind see the rainbow,

flowers rain from sky,

Kangaroo reads a poem,

Crocodiles sigh, cry and fly

Early hour

Dawn lifts sacred veil,

precocious clouds run down

mountain path, conceal

demure moon rendezvous with

dark handsome valiant knight.

Pandemonium

Queen bee keeps vigil,

drones quarrel to stir honey

in golden lattice;

workers stage nectar boycotts,

riots, declare palace coup.

Continuous Improvement

Trees download software

into Autumn trash, while

resolute skeleton

awaits Spring application.

An annual update ritual.

Love

Some say love should be felt and is not seen –

Listen to the trembling sighs of a mother, grasping

for life from two tiny sunken craters, now dry,

the eyes of her child that once reflected her entire

being and the great open African Savannah.

Hold the knotted arthritic hands of the old Gardner

planting from dawn to dusk; whispering quietly

every nuance from dark pregnant clouds, secrets

of the rose bud curled tightly in his fingers.

Picture a native son in a distant war - from afar;

sepia print, dead dusty soldier, bloody Purple Heart,

a child, few chickens, a dog, huts and helicopter

mangled, Napalm smoked them to silence.

Watch the throbbing heart of a woman, waiting

on a cold moonless night; weary eyes scanning

the curved horizon, cupped hands on quivering

mouth exhaling frozen icicle breath.

Tell me - what you heard, held, and saw is not love.

Focus a bit closer, dig a little deeper.

See, I told you…

  Freedom

 The winds of season cannot hold the

phases of the moon,

ebb and flow of tides,

dying in autumn, rebirth at spring.

The cyclone of change cannot mould the

simple quiet beauty of a maiden,

vivid palette of the rainbow,

jasmine scent on hot summer night.

The forces of eternity cannot halt the

woods from deep winter sleep

rivers merging into ocean

mountains bolting to the sky.

The spirit moves freely, untouched, ethereal,

leaving subtle shadows rejoicing freedom;

while men, like pebbles on the ocean front

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