Day passes into night,
sliding ever gently,
into darkness

The Olympic Range cuts through the sky
like an unsharpened saw.
Jagged, snow covered edges, tears the
blue velvet sky,
as sunlight's reflection blinds a curious eye.

Hello, my lovely,
I said to her,
for her beauty
my heart did stir
and small talk poured
from my mouth.
As I rambled on,
with thoughts all gone,
as if numbed by Gin
and when no sound,
came from her lips,
I took a look, again
and found that I
had been talking to
an attractive mannequin.

She
stands alone
with hands all clenched,
into fists.
Nails dug into flesh,
as tears course down her cheeks
and thinks of him,
now gone,
away from her,
forever.

The babble of many voices,
saying countless words,
confuses my mind.
Words are like water,
when sipped in small amounts,
you can savor each and every drop,
but in large quantities, are
like pouring a bucket
over your head.
Only a few drops get
in your mouth.

I smell the scent of morning
as I rise up from our bed.
I hear the beat of raindrops,
outside, upon the shed.
The sound of rhythmic breathing
could lull be back to sleep,
where the warmness of your body,
rises up, from beneath the sheet.
The silence then is broken
by some cars out on the street.
I move from you, so slowly,
on tired and leaden feet.
I check to see if I awoke you
but can't quite see your face,
then I step more quickly
and quicken up my pace.

Love can not be bought or sold
and is not for you to borrow
what does not belong to you
and give it back tomorrow,
for love runs away from me,
seeking others, for the morrow,
while sadness permeates my soul
drowning me in sorrow.

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.