i painted you away
with heavy, black brush strokes
and
slow, pastel dabs

i wrote you away
using quiet steady pens
and
blatant, loud clacks of keystrokes 

i sipped you away,
gulped you down

i giggled you away,
cried you 'til sleep

i slept you away,
awoke to your absence

you were a slow, arduous trek
up this painful mountain
with stunning views
and
crisp, heavy breaths

perhaps my descent
will be cooler,
a striking gait,
with a warm ocean
to greet me at the bottom,
the waves' steady passion
will comfort my realization
that  you   were   never  
really
here.

fall failures?

this morning i was thrilled to hear the birds 
arguin', flirtin', singin' amongst the porch vines
i was happy to have my clavicle back
and just enough french vanilla was left
for a perfect cup of coffee
out here in the swing

all this exaltation
over nothin' really
does all this deeming it so grand
mean i have lived too much?
that i have not lived enough?

the only thing that frustrates me
is the swing won't creak
and
you are not here
she is intimidated by the loud blue jay
and you.........by what?

adaptation to characterization

in all those previous acts

i quietly uttered the "no" lines,

with sheepish "yes" soliloquies

you dramatically recited

all those "yes" scenes

with silent, hamartia laden "no"

perhaps, the success of this drama

would be the decisive act

 of which roles to reverse,

seeking a grand finale of 

romantic denouement?

bees what you is

no longer a stranger
you listened
to all those crazy
love words

like a bee
you filled hundreds of combs
with sticky, sweet honey

though your hive 
was a long flight 
from here

4 a.m.

i've tree filled thoughts,
at this frail hour
wondering how......

through all those freezing winter nights
or 
beneath the heat of scorching summer suns
below your deep, deep roots
absorb water from seemingly
desert dry places

causing beautiful leaves 
on broken limbs
that provide 
shade for weary travelers, 
nesting for the homeless wren,
fruit for a hungry soul

beloved tree
blooming in a silent soul
how i wish
that i could be more like
thee

closure or hope?

all those things 

you say through prayers -

i've said a thousand times

i know god is tired

whether it be 

a 

slap 

or 

nakedness -

there are just some things

that cannot be said

with those 

twenty-six letters

we call

"the alphabet"

of illness and circumstances

the painter 

does not know

the invisible source

of his work

the interpreter 

ignores the meaning

 of the painting

the source

is not unconscious

at all

inspiration deserves

derision

i am giving it

life shows there is a vision

an ideal that 

stays vague

if not altogether

unknown