Friday, June 20, 2014


the morning catches me
consumed, counting gold dust
the moon shared with me this bed-
goddess of a glow,

holding the sun in the valley of my palms;
a candlelight at your subtle wake

what binds us must be one and same
as that which holds earth to sky
and cosmic winds to the feet of a fly
crazy and sane

my neck falling back
like sankofa,
catching yellow dreams by ear
naked streams vaporize from vein,
for me but you Wacko Jacko sang "speechless"
and Monroe put relevant sexy in the '50s

nobody but I had an eye to the moon
nobody but you was the moon in that room


  1. One writer said to another: 'I read your mind today if it's ok with you. A weather forecast of colours in a cloudless view. Then ran off undercover with lines one or two. Catching the muse, it's what writers do.