This silence is of the other sort.

Not that silence of stillness born;
That meditative calm that washes you
when morning's light shyly peeks
through your curtains.

No, this is the *malignant sort,
an out of control cellular growth,

(A Growth!)
that pushes out other thought
and claims the territories
of your mind all for
himself.

for himself.

This silence screams at you, "Listen to me!",

"Listen, now, lover!

And you can't do anything
but hear his absent,
his vacant,

that vacant,

that Voice!

This is the silence that shoves his way into your brain
and demands attention.
He stamps his foot and shouts
"Look at me!"

Are you looking?

And all you can do is stare at his
invisible,

His implacable

Face.

You wonder,
"Who are you, to invade

"my sanctuary?!"

But then it comes to you,
in that moment of

Reckoning:

You left your key laying

casually

on the window sill outside your door,
red ribbon tied on,
an exclamation point,

That mocking point!

No, you can't blame this silence.

You are the one who left the light burning brightly,
in your window,

that small, indescript window,

all night long.


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SE_l1hLps1g&feature;=shareice.

A poet falls in love much too easily,
But it is never easy to love a poet.

Songbirds enjoy a diet of variation;
Beetles and worms rarely make good friends.

But seeds spring up where they will.

Oh muse, you are an unfaithful lover!
I gave my heart to you.
You've taken, it and skipped town.

Blow, winds, blow

He wanders in and out of dream scapes,
Seeking refuge from the nameless ache,
The burn of a thousand cloudless days.

The tumbleweed of his joy blows in the dunes of neglect,
Vaguely rooted in the sands of discontent.

Blow, winds, blow!
Shift the sand beneath his feet,
Tumble him to the river of rejoice,
Where his seeds can bury deep
In the fertile soil of complete.


Walk on, Lonely Pilgrim

Would that you would go a spell further,
Fight a round harder, walk a mile longer,
Perhaps you will see the clear waters,
The soaring vistas, the spring flowers.

Sandstorms blind your eyes and sting your throat,
Your music lost into the wind.

Walk on, lonely pilgrim,
Walk on, and meet me
In the green valley,

It's just 'round the bend.

I've a song to play for you!



Welcome Song for the Weary Traveler


With unsure steps, tread the ground,
Gaze out with open eyes.
Cast away all fear and doubt.
Let the music sing your soul!

This river will wash your bedrock,
Polish the rough stones of your longing,
Flow away your worried mind.

When this love-seed settles in the soil of your heart,
Your rose will bloom, in fertile field,
Where nightingale warbles its melodious tune.

Lay down your head upon alfalfa pillow,
Let the music take you high,
Where daffodil dreams and mystic streams
Sing you sweetest lullaby.

Now close your eyes and feel the pull
This song, the lodestone to your heart,
Drawing out your own sweet tune.

Hear gentle clouds that roll on by,
Smell sweet the scented breeze in sky,

Feel the love,
                  
                      Let go,
                              
                                   *Now fly


Lonely Pilgrim Dreams


The lonely pilgrim fell asleep on his pillow of dreams,
As minstrel sung songs that floated on air.
He struggled to wake from his trance like state,
As he found himself deep in the quagmire of regret,
Wondering how he had found himself
Wandering in green valleys,
How he had been so easily lulled to sleep.

He wondered, too, if dreams are ever real,
And what he would see at morning's light.

Minstrel sang on, into the night,
Singing all good things into his heart,
Breathing love into his pillow,
Playing for light,
Playing the tune of her heart strings that night.

She was not sure what song she sang anymore,
But wanted to sing,
And sing some more.

No, I have failed at this.
Failed, at loving you.

Your twice remembered lines,
So precious, the first time,
Have grown still.

I won't be loving you again.
Won't be loving you.

Up we got, morning still,
Breath fogged over,
Deep night's chill.

Sunrise brightening,
Day arising.

Embers stoked,
Fire lighting.

Smoky air,
Disheveled hair.

Coffee, on to brew.

Sometimes, I feel I will implode!
I want to make myself so small.

Invisible.

I want to tick tock my way into oblivion,
thinking small thoughts.

But words explode from my lips,
Little bombs, they lick their way through the air.

And I think, "These words will