I have something to say
Like the shell
That finds its destiny
As a conch
From the depths of the sea
The fisherman
Collects it
It reaches the coast
Lifeless but
Thankful to him
To put its mortal
Remains to
Sacred use
It is polished
Processed
Put through acid and
Hot oil
It gains some
Precious value
Now it reaches
The hands
Of the skillful
Carver
Who decorates
It with
Strands of valued
Sacred imagination
Such are its designs
Now
A dealer is his
Next destination
He sees it
And purchases
And puts it
In a place of pride
In his shop
On display!
Now if
Some desirous
Eyes fall
On it
Its sure to be
Taken to
A shrine
Temple or home
And find
The joyous blowing
In the air which
Rushing, passes
Vibrating
With the
Joyous energy
Of its devoted blower!
It is considered
To purify the
Surroundings!
Its so valuable!
So the conch
Feels thankful
To each one
Who helped it
To reach here
In its
Journey!
So do I
Say
A thank you
To all those
Whom I
Do forget to say!

Early at dawn
The sun beams behind the clouds
"Gentle, my love. All is well." He whispers.

The dews sparkle
They kiss the green grass.
"Gentle, my love. All is well." They intone.

The birds chirp.
From their tree home and the skies
"Gentle, my love. All is well." They sing

The flower bud opens
With sweet magical delight
"Gentle, my love. All is well." She smiles.

In traffic and at work
My heart talks to my mind
"Gentle, my love. All is well." She hints.

And with you my sweet reader
I share this message and prayer
"Gentle, my love. All is well."

I loved to ride my Schwinn bicycle
I guess I was only nine
I ride it down to the pond
where I spent a lot of my time

I also loved a girl back then
She had a dog named Polar Bear .
Of course it was white
Until it was run over
by a school bus whose driver didn't care

I loved living in Florida
The salt air from
the ocean there
When I left the Sunshine State
I left a huge chunk
of me back there

Now I am a hand in my pocket
Always reaching for something not there
Home is where you hang
your hat
But I found no pegs to hang it
Inside of your lair .

If only we could put poems
in a bucket
Then throw onto a raging
fire
Would the flames die out
Or leap even higher .

But it seems words cost us nothing
More plentiful than the grass on the ground
Our lives have become instrumentals
Where there are no words to be found