Talk Up

Condescension is a deep disrespect 
Youngsters need never be talked 
Down to and oldsters should always
Be heard. There is no up or down 
Only the sideways of conversation. 
Hear me out on this. I speak from 
The heart but I consult my head as
Well. I do not deem to condescend.

Crocuses

Intimations of spring have
Gone with that season, the
Crocuses withdrawing into
The earth. Leaves drop now,
Changing like faded memory,
Fleeing the balding trees and
Waiting for snow to blanket
Them and keep them warm
Against winter's bluster. Time
Is sometimes kinder, or harsh
Like those rippling winds that
Nip at bared faces and foretell
The long, dreaded cold to come



Does It Matter



Does it matter if we shudder
In delight or fear? The body
Is versatile, owning shivers
Of pleasure as surely as ones 
Feeling the cold. Sensation 
Should be intimate, personal,
Ours not any strangers with
Whom we share a moment or,
Just as random,  spend a life. 



One Day



One day, I awoke from
Dreams of aspiration,
Of awe and admiration.
I simply stepped into a
Life of contentment. It
Was as if that box I pulled
Down from the shelf held
One more recipe. Add a
Pinch of cinnamon and
Find in it the happiness 
That eludes. Accept the
Gift. Savor all moments.
Dreams or nightmares,
They are you, waking or
Asleep, it is all the same.



The Observer



If I observe you, will you
Sit still until I have drawn
Every sinew of your hands
Til I have mastered your
Face with the strokes of
My pen or painted your
Lips in watercolors. If I
Am the observer I must
Also be the artist who
Captures your body and
Spirit, all the important
Details, all the fine lines.
When I observe you, will
You lie still until I see 
You complete, until I
Sculpt or paint or just
Tell your features for
Posterity and for now.
You are loved. You will
Not be trapped on my
Canvas. I will free you.
My gaze will free you.



Untitled 



Sometimes life steals from us, little by little.
It takes our ambition, our dignity, our honor.
Accomplishments and pride slip away, hide
In the attic or slide into the cellar, even when
We have no cellar, and the attic is just an old
Worn down trunk. We have no place to go to
Any more; all that we were goes no place too.
Sometimes life steals from us, little by little.
It takes our ambition, our dignity, our honor.
Accomplishments and pride slip away, hide
In the attic or slide into the cellar, even when
We have no cellar, and the attic is just an old
Worn down trunk. We have no place to go to
Any more; all that we were goes no place too.