in the gray-purple clouds
a eternal flower
with lips
blue wind
sending migratory birds
flying in curves
the birds
over the sea
in a half-moon sailboat
looking ahead to the future
looking ahead from it
beneath the ship
an orange waves
flows into the flower garden
of a loved one.

When I was young the days seemed longer,
the weeks, months, even a year an eternity,
but then the ensuing speeding decades seemed
to melt away like winter snows. Reminding me
that life is a brief and fleeting thing not to be
taken for granted or wasted.

The Sense to Shake it Off
She chose bold prose her lyrics overt
Expertly aimed with intention to hurt
Might Swifty style define her revenge and her plan
Bare assed and shout loud I’m no longer her man
No terms no discussion
No battles no War
Why bother complaining
What is it good for
BobbyO

pocket full of pennies
rolling across the kitchen floor,
down the steps, out the door,

pennies running into the street
(and i'm right behind them.)

"where do you think you are going? and
I'm feeling a bit embarrassed, so i whispered.
"you belong to me,

to keep or to throw away." and

there s a light tap on my shoulder,
and the policeman tells me,

"better find them soon
before they turn to rust,

I couldn't find mine
and I'm sure they turned into dust."

and the echoe from the hole
in my pocket shouts,
" his dreams are
trying to find the waterline."

i did find a few of them, a handful,
(I had swiped my hand as they tried to roll away)

I did grasp a few

but some of the other
pennies i threw into the air
where they may have fallen,
I know not where.

I visit the dead at
the grocery store,
library,
on the phone
and
in my e-mails.
I watch them  
on TV,
at the beach,
in my dreams
and in the eyes
of crows.

They wear
colorful clothes, and
always want to
sell me on their
way of life.
No thanks, I’m  
calling the whole  
thing off.
I’m going fishing.

when the edge of darkness beckons
and thunderstorms are calling to you
from distant mountains,

fall slow,

so I m falling slow

like rain turning to snowflakes,
like snowflakes turning into rain.

the rain running down my window pane.
an unshaded lamp and a cold bed.

I roll to face the wall

and how cruel the raindrops
to cast teardrop shadows onto the wall.


the poet's dream;
the moth seeking the light of a distant star.

how many dreams forgotten?

I'm searching for
the summer of dreams,
songs, and a voice, and words

floating through clouds like roses,

I'm searching for the distant star,
the mystery of tomorrow
and a pair of eyes to fall into,
the silent touch of raindrops
turning into words.