Words And Music

Make our dreams be stone,

and our love cement.

Let our words be bone

‘round which flesh music is bent.

Plans drawn on paper,

models made of clay

build no skyscraper

without strong hands the steel to lay.

I find trust in your words as time goes by

your beautiful blue-moon eyes to the ground,

my blue eyes to the sky.

Hiking trails together our thoughts have found.

For we are more than we say,

and we are more than we do.

At the end of the night, at the end of the day,

to be as one, yes, we dance with these two.

She'll Never Read This

Chicago lady with the Asian eyes,
so excited, with that special basket for us,
 while all around, the sun danced on pines tips.
Boiled cabbage, carrots, corned beef, rye bread - toasted.

Smiling at me.
I wanted to hold that smile in my mind, but told her instead
about the lady I found again after two years
who helped me at a time when I needed it most; inspired me,
who has no idea how much she means to me,
who I need in my life again.

She folded her hands and her Asian eyes began to cry, yet her lips smiled.
Wiping a tear,
 she handed me a corned beef sandwich.
We ate in silence, as the first stars appeared above us.

I would write her a poem one day, I said.
She laughed, smiling now around her Asian eyes.
And together we finished our corned beef sandwiches.

In The Cold

Guy comes to my door last night; I think
his name was Harry.
Used to own a drycleaners uptown
a few years back.
So now he's selling cable door to door.

I says I don't need it.  He says
sure you do, everybody needs it.  I says
Frank, I don't got a TV.  He peaks
in, sees my treadmill takes up half
my living room, weight bench the other half.

Next to it got my patio table; yeah, patio table
because I felt sorry for it in the cold,
dining table with patio chairs.
That's my house.  He says

How about cable phone?  I says
what I need it for, Chuck, I got a cell phone.
Use it for work and here too.  He says

Whata ya do for a livin'?  I tells him.  Larry says
you gotta get dressed up to do that?  I says
Not anymore.  Don't even own a suit, don't
wear 'em anymore.

Too bad, he says, I know a good drycleaners.

The Epiphyte

I brought your mom a flame-red star

 held in moist, green arms

the night we played in your old room like teens.

The next day we walked blind on the cold sand, talking

as waves and wind met.

And the sea birds tip-toed past us.

You spoke of your past as if it were still alive with him.

He was sick and that's what made him do it.  Those times.

Your eyes still saw him in my face,

 your arms held him tangled in me.

Did my kiss ever touch your lips?

The bromeliad will last longer than I.

Poem - Junction On Top

Red Wing boots and Grandpa's machete,
orange backpack on and soon I was ready.

Back in my teens, I'd get up early.
From Round Top, home lights glittered soft and pearly

down below, in that small town sleeping,
while way on top, a bold pace was I keeping.

Headed north 'cross the mesas alone,
I oft' wandered watching for snakes in the stones

or gazing at clouds and far airplanes,
old farm houses and barns, windmills and wind vanes.

Slipping on past Mesquite and Cedar,
learning to be an animal trail reader

'till the knife edge of the cliffs I found.
It was here that my heart soon led me unbound.

Here was the place where my thoughts would flow
peaceful and steady like the Llano below.