Repentance isn't a feeling word

Actions are the
dispensations separated
by cross , tomb and resurrection

So aches the heart to know
of what or where
or perhaps most ardently
. . . when .

When will I see you again ?

the
smell
of the
barbecue grill
taunts
my hunger pains
I walk on by
uninvited
with no place
to
go.

I love it while
it sleeps--smiling,
wet with tea;
dreaming dormouse dreams.
I tickle its downy fur.
And it laughs and
moans softly.
I want to put it in
my pocket and
carry it everywhere;
take it out on
lonely autumn nights and
play with her until
she's exhausted,
relaxed and rested,
content and lost in my
fingers and in my heart.

Needles of Yew

Lay a soft bed
Of years
Over a grave-

Green to Brown
To Yellow- a pleasing transition

Echoing

The change
Underground

Small dwelling

Flower and ****
Vying for place

Any breath could be
The last-

A sigh of deep
Contentment

I’ve been at the helm on a rudderless ship
lost in a mercurial sea of deficiency
I could fly by the sit of my pants
with a suitcase already packed
on any given day
at any given time
at any given place
I was where I wanted to be
seeing who I wanted to see
doing what I wanted to do
despite my responsibilities as a father
or having to face the daunting tasks
that appeased my current girlfriend(s).
having no structure and no plan,
life was a timeline of formidable prospects.
I rather enjoyed it
quite nicely.