days they just go
weeks fly by
months...
turn to years
a life of counting
god I hate maths

Compadres gather
around the hearth, rekindling
warmth of memories.

You are a traveler of the South lands
brown, a leathered skin coyote
desert walker of the Sonoran sands
crafty, black magic witch
a shaman, lucid dreamer
Yaqui Indian spell weaver
of visions, of paintings in the sand
mixing colors, peyote flowers
red, the melting of the aloe bowers
dark blood, the blooming agave towers
thick with snakes, the fire and hiss
that burns black of sacaton grass
the quiver and flash of flying sparks
igniting night, time traveling to the stars.

She lives to love a man who once could sing
his way into the hearts of many crowds;
once strong enough to pick up anything
with either back or mind.  Her man had wowed
the critics with his skill with a guitar,
with songs that brought salt water to the eyes
and lyric laughter.  Could have been a star,
connections came and left, not realized.
The cracking voice now breaking hearts instead,
the left hand hanging, useless, by his side.
His back is bent, his heart is weak, his head
is filled with possibilities untried.
What's left of him can barely take her hand...
and yet...
                 and yet, she lives to love her man.

Under the murky water of consciousness,

there are one or more, even a shoal of fish.

On the bank,I sit, a  brooding moon on it, reflects,

looks like it swims in the sins of clouds,

My fish-line and hook lay limp on the grass bank,

I've to catch the fish,the line is strong, baits ready,

But I am enamored by the moon's reflected glory

on the water,a lover of the moon, I'd love to catch

as much fish,without breaking the watery moon.

To forgo the love of illusions,keep focused and wait.

deep inside one has to decide,what to seek from life

whether to walk the hard path where  wisdom trees line up,

or heartily be regaled by the pyrotechnics of apparitions.