written 1998
One day while out in his wheelchai… He heard a person say something th… The comment that was said was, oh… He has a bad life because he can’t… Now that’s not entirely true, he’s…
On a brisk autumn day, Atop a great hill; The voice was born, To warm off a chill. ’Tis a voice of reason,
Down by the river, Where the green chilies dry, Where the peppers are sorted & siz… Down by the river, Where the herons’ dark shadows,
Who is this little girl, And where does she come from. Her physique, so frail. Her large dark eyes Full of sadness,
They say the truth will come to yo… And he’s going to tell you about s… Almost any soap opera or any popul… Now, he know she hated him but he… Yes, she was the love of his life—
Big as the proverbial bull he blun… His way through fragments and shar… Insect-like things too delicate an… His complete understanding; While the fire reaches out past th…
Such a heavy heart, So crushed by fear— She never meant to lock Her love from you, dear. Her deep love for you
She waked to a bleak, rain-storm d… Most things seem dulled by tones o… She watched yesterday’s sun “set”—… Brief—there was still an after-glo… She recalls smiling as she said,
Remember him when the sky is dark, And clouds hide burning stars. Think of him as the rain rushes To touch his skin, and trees Dance around him through the wind.
Bare roots twist incredible design… Cascading down to drink the river They float between the banks among The rocks you say “Lie back and Look up, Mom”—green bordering
They fall in love without knowing… There are no words spoken at all. There are only words spoken with t… Though neither one knows what is h… Their hearts float from the bodies…
Who cares? That is the question. Maybe it’s… So make a correction. Who cares? She wants to know. Maybe it’s her…
Whence cometh thou, ’tis within th… A light, feathered gentle, soothin… For he is not, as it is so, engulf… O’ heart, tears begat thee one yea… Do caress him warm upon his face
A splotch of veridian, A hint of cerulean blue. One long streak of burnt sienna. The painter dabs The palette
He had a dream There’s no nations in his country… No small people from the herd, No chauvinists and priests, No religion too.