Blown 

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The need to be not stricken
By the simplest song’s every low, strummed string 
The imagined scent riding the gentlest breeze
The hop, hop, hopping of some creature’s feet
Is great
Is doomed

Indifferent 

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Be fifteen
That in-between
And do not care
What snarled your hair 
The where your walk
Or when

Be then fifty
That year of glee
And reminisce 
What life’s half-kiss
The who your smile
Or why

The Breeze

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Can one celebrate motion
and yet champion calm
Can one take 
and yet still honor love

And yes, speaking of love
how does one take their tea
Black as eve’ 
or with honey, my love

her own poem

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He was always his own
On loan
And less of a rock than a stone

She these reasons unknown
Bemoaned
Existing on scraps and on bones

Now with learned heart grown
Wounds sewn
She lives in the no-holds-barred zone

Feck

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You never have to say you love me
Or think ahead to hold the door 
You never have to buy me blossoms
Or sweep me ‘cross the dancehall floor 

The information you must give me 
In your secret, rhythmic rhyme
I’ll wait at home plate, send it searing
In your signature hang time 

Provision

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Living breathing poetry
Are people can’t you see
And at day’s end, the prose and skin of souls 
Is my Goodread 

Thus daylong I do gather
Good will, good faith, good fight 
For provision to warm me
As I walk the cold, harsh Night