The music drifts upriver on the breeze,
Tunes bittersweet to match the fading light.
Sweet harmonies sway gently through the trees
And fill the air as dusk gives way to night.

Sweet songs arise anew from forest deep,
Beautiful love songs remembering times
Long gone but never far away, they weep
With thoughts of love, and loss, and reckless crimes

Of passion. The songwriter’s messy swill
Makes its way out, and singers always find
The emotional core in words that chill
The needy soul whose heart exceeds its mind.

The black beauty of the blues takes its toll
When sweet and sour music commands the soul.

Completion is a most fulfilling thing,
Whether in physical endeavor or
In intellectual challenge. We sing
Praise to them that find the last exit door

To journey far or deep, wherever fate
Leads. To challenge the mind is what we seek,
To discover, to bolster, to deflate,
To plumb the painful depths, and then to speak

In metaphoric verse to move the soul
To places we’ve never been, even seen
In our wildest dreams. And not to console
An aching heart, but rather to careen

Through life taking the hardships as pleasure,
And writing words that turn them to treasure.

And once again the blood runs deep and wide
As babies lay, strewn, ‘cross a cold, hard day
As evil once more wins. The nation cried
Buckets again, while leaders turned away,

Their words pretending empathy. The rage
Of a nation falls short on ears of stone
While mothers weep. Again. Theirs is a wage
Of ill-got treasure. How could we have known

That lies they tell themselves would become truth
To true believers seeking something real,
When real has disappeared. They offer proof
That only a fool will believe. They deal

In emotional blackmail. They just lie,
As grieving mothers watch their children die.

Dignity, strength, patience, truth, and grace
Mark all the days from two times birthing pain
To guiding those whose fate it is to face
Adulthood’s obstacles. The challenge: train

Them in the skills to master all they meet
With savvy, tact, and humor. As they grow
Into young women, theirs will be complete
Confidence, the product of the long, slow,

And thorough upbringing that she knew
Would bear fruit that comes with maturity.
It isn’t accident that this sweet two
Reflect values she holds dear. You see,

It isn’t teaching. Rather, being kind
Sticks. Role modeling was the grand design

The music in his soul is sweet and clear.

It fairly tingles with the raw feeling

Of one whose struggles bubble very near

A tough but porous surface. Words reeling

Out in strains of real, personal anguish

To tell truths to those who hear, and admire

The courage to tell his stories. A wish

From a poet: would that he’d find the fire

Inside to assemble thoughts to convey

A similar sense of turmoil inside.

What these two share oft sees the light of day,

But music strikes the souls of those who’ve cried

The same tears, felt the same pain. The siren’s lure

Is palpable, the singer’s heart is pure.

As I look down from up above, my face
Is deep imprinted in one memory,
Two years, or three, or ten? A smile does grace
My deeply held love, visions you might see

In quiet moments when deep dreams are shared
Between separated lovers. These looks,
Unnoticed by the passing throng, compared
To daily hum-drum, evoke feelings books

Can only hope to achieve as they speak
To loss, and sadness, and to moving past.
You should not ever feel in moments weak
That I am not there. Even as you’re fast

Asleep I look down, smiling, as you move
From dreams through dreams, remembering our love.

A challenge: thirty days of rhyming words
Has been dropped on my doorstep. Can I do
This thing? I sit at kitchen window.  Birds
Take morning sustenance whilst I, who knew

Better, tried the chore once before, and dug
Deep into the core of my complex soul
To find meaning. Sometimes I, hurting, drug
Nuggets of truth from inside the black hole

Where an empathetic heart used to beat.
How much more is there left for me to mine?
Can poetry soothe hurt? Or is it bleat
Of self absorption? What can it define

Of a person’s inner voice? Could it be
Truth? Or could it simply make fool of me?
                         

This morning seems like seven years ago.
I can’t remember all the things I’ve done
Today, but now it’s almost over. Though
Night has descended, still there remains fun

And games–not really–still there remains stuff
That must be finished ‘fore the lights go out.
There’s coffee for the morning; things are tough
In the A.M. if we must go without.

That’s why the auto function is a boon
To my survival, and that of my wife,
Who’ll be quite crabby if I don’t go soon
And set it up. And now the dog barks! Life

Isn’t supposed to be this hectic now.
Thank God I don’t have to go milk a cow.

It’s not another number, but a state

Of mind. You get older if you allow

Yourself to do that evil thing, but wait–

You’re really getting better. Only now

You have the wisdom youth can never know.

And beauty? It’s a transitory thing,

Perceived as a treasure by those who go

To awful lengths to seek the golden ring

Of artificial youth. But I, who live

A wondrous life, a gift from one who sees

What lies beneath, know true beauty. I give

To you a peaceful respite beneath trees

That worship longevity. May this prove

To you that what I treasure is your love.