Meet me where the grass is fragrant From the morning dew; I have learned a melody And want to sing to you. It can’t be another place. My voice won’t rise so high. I won’t cater to a crowd; I daren’t even try. If you cannot meet me there, The tune will slip away. It…

A whistler claims the springtime air. His rhythm stirs the water fair, And swans, in envy, fly away, Resigned to cry another day. The whistler has no thing to mourn, Unlike pedestrians forlorn. For meadows come from storms of rain— Small price for color we shall gain! Dear whistler, never slow your tune. Let it…

I collect forgotten things: Dusty books and memories, Fallen leaves from slumbering trees, Music no one else still sings. I wear a coat of happy dust, Reveling in the Ancient smell. How could I refuse to tell These tales old? I must.

I glide through Ageless galaxies. Eternity Does quake. I soar through Starstuff old and new To show you that I wake. I pass through Endless light-years, And secrets of The deep, All to drive Away the beasts So you, my dear, Can sleep.

This was written as folklore for a novel I’m writing. It’s supposed to be a song. The lady of the brook Sees the moon—he creeps above, Dancing on her surface. O! what could it be but love? The lady of the brook Waits each night for his return, Never knowing that for her His heart…

which holy garden could have been mother to roses of such sheen? slumbering in the promise sweet of a september soon to greet— autumn so painless, they’ll forget the scorching summer lives on yet. see how this flower, clothed in red, yawning, bows her pretty head.

With stars and Streetlights Guiding me, I got lost all the same. Searching for The sunrise, I Heard whispers Of my name. Heavenly Dance slows for Nobody, Poets and sleepers alike. Starlight and Streetlight will Keep their shine Long into the night.

Eternity Passes, like Dregs of the Milky Way Trickling through Space. Cosmic Light fades in The heat of Ancient Sun.

i believe in honesty – x is x and y is y – like frost on snowy days, and also in the off-key notes that every artist plays, half-developed photographs, barely thought out rhymes, and in the bizarre colors that you see when you take time.