In the eerie hours half asleep
I heard my name in a soft voice.

It was a wake up call I couldn't resist
The jungle was in dark mist
The night ending but morning was still frail
The call was to tread on the fallen leaves trail.

The trees were shaded dark the sky was pale
Every bush was where the shadows fell
Quiet was the air our heart tautly tense
We tiptoed our best, and it made sense.

Tweet of early birds didn't sound sweet
Danger awaited at all sides to meet
We strained ears for the slightest sound
The jungle a romance on a perilous ground.

On the dry boulded river shapes were deep
Moving in a herd crawling to the steep
We stood frozen on this other side
To let the distance between grow wide.

Years have flown and whenever in the woods
I see my father's figure in jungle brood
He wakes me up and stretches his hand
We fly through the bushes in jungle land.

In our times,
no one wants
to be politically
incorrect.
"Let's not offend."
seems to be the
chant.
Nice little
sheep
that
stay
in line.
Simple smiles, and
polite applause,
but just
a smattering.
Agreement en masse.

Next time you see
this, look for the
return of public
hangings, the blotting
out of the sun, and the
death of art that is
forged from the
marrow of the spirit.

I take good advice
Even if I don't like the source,
Because I trust in knowledge
And in the pursuit of more.
I think for myself,
Because I cannot allow others to;
Evidently, not many do.
I place my respect, like I place my trust-
As to how I pay-
When it has been earned.

In a field
I see
A Celtic shield
  
Roots like fingers
Searching for the netherworld
Branches feeling light
Sound of songbird
Day and night

From under your shade
My mind can see
The land of faerie

A leaf under my tongue
Brings forth a song

Dance of the faerie queen
What beauty to be seen

To the aspen tree
We all bend the knee
Step 1 2 3

Like good help
a smooth glide  is hard to find

that perfect pen that rolls
with  the flow

of your words and music
across the paper

like wind
through
a creaking door

three messages
in three hours
and nothing

but cicadas
which are even worse
then crickets

a sharp blade
carving

shaving
after shaving

from a gnarled wooden
stick

or is it the sound
of your gravelly singing

and the many guitars
you've  owned and played

or the feel of stubble
or the smell of cologne

I don't know

but I'll can and will say
at the risk of selfishness

is your day is
mine too

and a day
will never be enough