At the core the common characteristic among us of such disparate views, diverse
cultures, and multitude of experiences, is our genius and the universal uniqueness of it.
Weary hand finds eleven
Save her whisper,
“Closer, ’tis not so late
Let savage winter chill your raging doubts.”
Stoke fading ember emblazoned on it,
I am with you
With you now
And I will make you dream again.
(The Truth of it)
Finds his rest where day winks glistened beams
robin rocks intoxicating slumber
mischief grin eternal though hushed in dreams.
An eye naught misses, hears from narrow squint
rustling feet tells mister quits there,
blinks his sleepy eye,
journeys to another place.
A TASTE OF HONEY
Quiet fingers fondle sleeping cheek
Fires placid pulse pumps rapid pace
Revive me keep me rising up.
Breathing pulsing sultry summer heat
Melts brine to beads then molten streams
Dire search for nectar’s lair.