This world is made up of things we shall never understand,  Right,left,yin and yang.   Do they both mean the same?  They are the scale's that hold everything even,   Like the turning of the seasons,  The rain,the snow,lighting,the thunder.....   Does the mysterious make you wonder?  The sand,the sea,sun,the moon,   Heaven or Hell we shall see one soon..  Caught between the two colors of life,   First there is black then there is white,  In life if not careful you will loose sight,      &nbs

MY WRITINGS FROM MY PAST UP TILL NOW  EACH TELL A STORY IN THEIR OWN WAY   HOW I FELT ON ANY GIVEN DAY  THEY TELL OF WHAT I HAVE BEEN THROUGH IN LIFE   THEY SPEAK OF MY HAPPINESS  THEY SPEAK OF MY STRIFE   THEY TELL OF MY SECRETS,MY HABITS,MY LIES  THEY TELL OF THE TIMES I'VE JUST SAT DOWN TO CRY   THEY TELL OF MY ADDICTION ,FOR SO LONG I HID  THEY TELL OF THE DRUGS I ONCE DID   THEY TELL OF HOW I WAS SAVED BY MY KIDS  THE SPEAK OF VISIONS, DREAMS THAT I HAVE   THEY WILL TELL YOU OF A TIME

Gems will forever glow Your diamond will always sparkle Your beauty will never fade because you had a beautiful soul Your voice will never be forgotten A gem like you can never be replaced

I fall too easy, I wilt too fast That tint of sky after rain Always breaks me apart. Scattering itself in seven, What a con rainbows are! Divide as such from one A wound and many scars. Violet violets, indigo bush; Creepy silence, beloved so, Blue sky, green grass lush; Flaccid beauty, where ever I go. Tongues waging wars Pens that account these farce Yellow huts and orange face; Ah! The red that promised no race. Yet I get back up, And blossom atop With the shine of sun, Become clear and one.

what would you do
if he withheld his love
what would you do
if he did not hear your mournful cry
what would you do
if he left you lost in the dark
what would you do
if he ignored your plea
what would you do
if he hid the sun and gave only rain
what would you do
if he withheld his love
what would you do
if he left you lost in the dark
what would you do?

Forgets to chill the salad forks
and sometimes heats them.

Still addresses you as "Sir" or "Madam"
but doesn't sound as if it means it.

Tells the postman that
you are living under an alias.

Insists on wearing a sombrero
when it serves enchiladas.

Has started keeping
the dust bunnies as pets.

Spends too much time reading
Sartre and Beckett.

Walks in endless circles,
robot palm to robot brow,
mumbling: "The horror! The horror!"

Asks to be called "Charlemagne."

Appeared in Asimov's SF Magazine

                                      Just like early blooming daffodils dying in the snow,
                                      my son, you didn't get a chance to say farewell,
                                      and now I come to you,

Tears are said to be of water, but they aren't at least not for me. 
Not when it comes to you. 

My tears hold the unsaid words I now regret,
the memories that haunt my peace,
your sky colored eyes,
and your lips calling out my name.

My tears hold another life where you and I are together.

She's a realist,
solid to the bottom
of her antique hardwood legs;
she knows she can't go back
to that English dining room
with its handpainted screen
and the china plates
displayed on the wall.
She knows she'll be braced
by cheap pine boards
to the end of her days,
her leaves wedged in place,
her surface scarred
by scissors, glue, scalding pots.
But she would like company:
a set of matching chairs
that have something to say,
a family working together
on a 2000-piece puzzle,
or just a young tablecloth
that someone ironed for her.