Come my child and fly with me
to a sunny tropic isle,
where you can see red coconuts
and a purple crocodile.
Imagination is your friend
as we lift, from off the floor,
while spreading wings, beat quicker now
and we begin to soar.
Drifting through the clouds,
like puppets on a string
and wind with it's freshest breath
makes all our clothing sing.
Look down my child,
look down below,
beneath us, on the ground,
as we see trees of coconut
and hills made out of mounds
of chocolate, marshmallows
and other sweets to eat,
provided that you keep it
from sticking to your feet.

I hear the wind in the Pines
calling my name,
as though they are beckoning me,
to come forth and to answer
for sins of the past.

Sin's of the past are those of my father
and their fathers, before them, now gone.

For each of us must bear
all the anguish of ages
and make our amends
for those who have gone,
years before.

Lights in the distance,
pillowed softness,
cottony droplets suspended,
in a milky sea,
sound of distant autos running,
muffled by the blanket of fog.

Trees and shrubs, an
occasional person, shrouded
with white, reflective vapors.
Fog lifts from ponds and marshes,
sounds echoing across the flat.

The explosion of two ducks, rising
with squawking beaks and drumming wings.
These are the memories that I remember
from those days of long ago,
when I was young.
The excitement comes
from anticipation.

A small figure with
golden hair, stands outside
the cone of light, on darkened
street. A bicycle propped up,
on kick stand, blends with
the shadows. Flash of
light, reflections of arms
waving in a warming motion.
What thoughts go through
a small boys head as he
stands alone, in the darkness.
Watching, waiting for the appearance
of another, early morning, traveler.

If you were not of this world,
I would worship you.
You are the star that guides me
through lonely day and night.
You are the light that turns
the dark into bright.
You are inspiration in my quest above.
You are my everything,
you are my love.

Clouds racing
for the far horizon,
running from
the evening light.

Wind comes puffing
in short hard bursts,
causing tree limbs
to whip in frenzy.

The Sun, peeking through
the clouded masses,
reflects the rain and
like sheeted glass
it splatters,
on the window.

Frozen droplets, of warm breath,
hang in the air
as the crisp stillness of a
winter morning wraps it's
icy fingers on ear and nose.

In the distance, sits the
mountain, decked out in
it's white finery,
serenely majestic,
with it's cape of haze.

The lake,
a piece of glass,
reflecting every object,
lies tranquil, sullen
and emits the pungent
odor of the sea.

Grey is the morning
fog all around,
dim are the street lights,
muffling all the sound.
Good time for thinking.

When the evening sun has set
more than a thousand times
and when the days are as many,
as the grapes upon the vines,
will you remember of me
the good times and the bad
and only think of pleasant thoughts
but never those when sad
and after all the other lovers
have left before they came,
will you still think about me,
will you remember my name?

Morning quiet, soft as
a whisper,
silently, as it breaks from
the dark.
Lighter and brighter, slowly
the dawning,
shadows receding creep
on the ground.
Sunlight enlightens the
soft subtle colors
as darkness relinquishes it's
hold and night
slips away.