He  stays  with  us  in  winter  storms
And  when  the  garden's  bleak
He  hops  around  in  sleet  and  hail
Appearing  pale  and  weak.

But  once  the  days  begin  to  lengthen
And  the  worst  of  winter's  gone
He  perches  high  up  in  a  tree
And  begins  his  joyful  song.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK.  2016.

roasting asphalt oven
sweat and petroleum pungent
a festival in the truest sense
diversity beyond societal bland
tolerance arches over rainbow
colored heads banging to the beat
the great goddess smiles as we dance
she knows true love when she sees it

sing to the dying sun
draping white shoulders afire
above lahar fields green again
successions of ash and germination
evidence of universal rotation
barren to blessed
sway to the eternal rhythm
bass heartbeat in our chests

Took a cherry blunt hit with yellowed fingers
The song writing sensibility lingered
Poured black coffee and wrote a tune on being comfortable at night
How a bad tooth kept me down
Teenage greasy haired full blown depression
Guitar in hand or within reach obsession
Chain smoking , acrid breath
Strumming through ashtrays to build a cigarette
Hiding in rooms
Scurrying away from crowds
Always the subject
Self medicated loner
Writing poetry then burning it
Having a friend then ruining it* ...