I find pleasure in the smallest of things
in the glass like wings that a cicada brings
and from the small brown bird in springtime when she sings

I am amazed at the little things
like the slate blue sails of a boat in flight
and a moth who flies into the bright light

I fall in love on a daily basis with feathers I find in the oddest of places
and the ocean spray that splashes the faces
of giggling people in boats at the races

FIXED                                                                        
T’was not the winter
Of my discontent
But rather one
Of wonderment

They stopped my heartbeat
So I was dead
But then replaced it
With a new beat instead

My life was saved
And now extended
My heart was broke
But now is mended
BOEMS BY JA 294          copyright 02-04-2014
Written in hospital 2014
                                                     THE OPERATION AND REHAB
                                                      WERE A GREAT SUCCESS
                                                     THANKS FOR READING
                                                      AND MAY GOD BLESS
                                                      The end

We stand in twilight hues...
Fingers consciously entwined in a clasp.
We speak without vocals
that crescendo between sighs and gasps.

We anticipate...
But we do not look forward...
Not to the promise of freedom and salvation.
More so the uncertainty
that resonate with the *****
of feathered morning birds.

The unknown scares us so.
We know not of what lurks,
in the impending light of day.
We simply bide the ticking seconds...
As we scramble for the right words to say.

When there needn't be such uncomfortable silence.
No need for an awkward stance.
For we've embraced the melody,
memorised the lyrics
and rehearsed the dance.

Yet...
We hesitate...
Even though we've decided that we must.
For what shadow that looms agape below us,
hurling threats of swallowing us whole,
will soon be warded off...
As quick as the errant gust.

The darkness...
Will soon be cast behind our backs.
And all would be committed to memory
as surely as it had begun.
It would dissipate as it would stretch far...
But only if we turn to face the dawning sun.

As a boy growing up in rural Iowa
I thought love was curve of neck,
tone of voice, hang of breast,
thick of hair, length of step,
temperature of hand, hue
of skin, size of soul;
I still think so.