He was an old man; finely weathered,
and walked with a bit of a limp,
favoring his right leg.
His walk was more a shuffle,
one leg, slow to catch up with the other.

In down of gosling gray, she comes,
Sweeping before her, pendulous clouds,
Enveloping, caressing, smothering;
She is the warm west wind.
Far to the west was she born,
Across the sea and beyond;

Much like a peanut butter sandwich
Love sticks, and causes a choke
Washed down with a glass of milk
The next bite does the same thing

He’s in the dark, a man with no clue

Did thou believe then
I loved thee not, lass?
Did not the circumstance of time
reveal this love which shines
from out my very soul, dear girl?

Perceive thou not this truth,

Alas, poor wretch of furrowed brow
And shoulder hunched from birth
For me, naught but the dream
Of love’s sweet embrace
The lady’s gentle touch
Her kiss upon this twisted visage

everybody has their own
private little hell
and though it differs some from yours
mine treats me just as well

It jabs me in the ribs sometimes
forbid that I forget

The last robin has gone
Overhead the barking cry of wild geese
Imparts a trembling excitement
A stirring within me
Primeval emotions
A strange mixture of disturbing feelings

I’d write thee, dear girl, a sonnet,
But fear that I know not the way;
Would’st thou take as my offer a poem then;
If I rhyme you some words on my way?

Speak softly, whispered love tones
Awaken not this sleeping brute
Whose beast-like, hairy arm encircles
‘Round about his fleshly loot

Speak softly, whisper near my bed

Beyond the porch and up a gentle rise,
The woods open upon a small meadow.

Watching the cottontails playing here
Is a gift welcomed of the spirit’s heart,

The old Tenmile church house was postcard perfect
gleaming white with its tall spire atop the roof
the large brass bell hung proudly in the belfry

It was not so long ago
that wondrous evening
whiled away on blankets
tossed beneath a tree
the picnic basket’s belly filled
and you with me,
make-do gourmets
whose eyes were fixed

Care ye not oh fearsome lads
The ones ye left lie crying
Face ye your country’s enemy
Without a thought for dying

the wee lad cuddles mother
Her breast his haven safe

along the silvered wood of an old split-rail fence
blackberry bushes proliferated yearly
overtaking neighbors to the left and the right
quail and cottontail rabbits were at home here

born on the back of a nightmare
expelling the hard breath of time
toothless harlots sing harmony
reeling drunkenly down alleyways
solace found amid fellow cast outs