A sallowest silence drips,
drop  by  drop,
into open muddy palms

The ripple in the gathering cup
of hand, undulates within soul
like poignant ocean waves
eat away at the sands of time ,
just  below  where
a lighthouse beacon beckons
shining from someplace I can’t find

A hidden pathway
lies  untrodden
beneath a thousand
dew drop clad ferns ,
fronds bestrewn with autumn’s
befallen sleight of hand
swaddled in her fading
manifest guise

Where wild mushrooms
rise  blindly  from
resplendent darkness
beneath silken earthen moss ,
to teach the parables ,
how fleeting a moment passes

The moment enwrapped
in nature's solicitude ,
the  only  shelter
mother nature's own refugees
whom dwell in an ever fugitive
sense of belonging

Fallen Lichen scattered
like  wild  feathers ,
traces from a higher ground ;
sown bread crumbs
of  the  heavens ,
abandoned like slowly falling
snowflakes upon a labyrinth
coursing    beyond
emerald dank bejewel

Leading me willingly onward
beyond belated familiarity ,
exiled  void  of  affinity
a Trumpeter swan
in search of wapatos

The stone cold silent languor
rises  up  through
thickly grasping moss

Wind  stirs the ennui
with a breath of kindness ,
chilling a body in a soul
as cold as lonely stone ,
sheathed beneath
its hard yet fragile disguise

A twisted pathway
leading  somewhere  
I  yearn to follow ;
somewhere unknown
beckoning  from
deeply hidden hope
and its urgent calling

Somehow the uncertainty
of the path I am drawn
makes   me   feel
a  little  less  removed

Assured by the gentle touch
deeply rooted ancient earthen spirits ,
beyond doubt , I’m never alone
deep beyond wooded margin
Cocooned in creation’s sanctuary
mother nature’s own refugee ...



                                                          ­*wild is the wind

We give thanks to the

Trees, by planting our cigar-

ette butts at their feet.

I see you're working
working very hard
not for yourself alone
but for your loved ones too.

It's a shame that they don't see it
Oh, I know how it feels
It feels like it's all for naught
But it feels so right once you see them smile

I'll tell you, never stop working hard
even if no one sees you and your heart
even if the lack of appreciation makes you cry at night
even if it takes everything of you to fight

Never stop working
They can't see it but you make them happy
That's what you wanted, right?
Never stop trying to make them happy.

Shh, listen.
Did you hear it?

Its disturbing echo
inching down your spine.
Its chilling breath at the
nape of your neck.  

Snaking through my mind,
creeping in like fog.
Seeping through the floor,
spilling secrets like blood.  

Sounds of a clock
muffled by cotton.
Cloaked, it hammers
growing louder.  

Can’t you hear it?
The thumping it emits.
Shuddering through my frame,
suffocation, blame!  

It’s growing louder!
Uttering secrets only I know.
Acute are the senses
that hear its woe.  

Pounding away all thoughts,
persistent, Its haunts.
Shattering midnight it stalks,
nightmarish pillow talk.  

It grows, my skin pales.
louder and louder it wales!
A dead man’s heart yells,
telling its tale.  

Say that I am mad, do you?
If only you knew,
I hear things in hell, it’s true.
Don’t you hear it too?

I had a love and my dear love left;
And I could not comprehend his leaving:
O why did you run? My heart’s bereft,
And sore from all this grieving.

O loving heart, why did you lie?
To be forsaken, wherefore and why?
You had a life and a world before me;
Was it I who stopped you being free?

I gave you gifts and wished to please,
What affliction could I not appease?

I heard the phantom’s whisper. But can the dead really speak to the living? I numbed at the thought momentarily and then laughed off the possibility because science told me so. The whisper of the phantom came and went for a second time. So I questioned the occurrence once more.  *Can the dead really speak to the dead?