rather yours truly doth thrive
on keeping the ethos, mythos,
and pathos of Pigpen alive
subjected to eternal
abomination, brutalization,
condemnation, damnation,
emasculation, humiliation, ostracization,
who one day envisions himself
as a decrepit solitudinarian
an aging long haired baby boomer,

Doubt is upon us
the feeling is gone
overcast skies
tell us to move on

We keep moving forward
not intending to trip,
but the haze in our hearts
leaves us lonely and sick

We look to tomorrow
as only a dream
One which arrives
with a caterwaul scream

We seek for a reason
just to press on,
but our hearts fail in passing
elusive the dawn!

The daylight approaches
along with the sun
The cycle is over
the skirmish is won!

Her family, taken by fire ...
rescued by a stranger
she, an artistic child
not 'til now in danger.

Thirteen, timid and shy, verses
old man of forty-five,
watching her every move
it made him come alive.

Music tuned in, she glided free
with graceful hands floating
above her slender waist
was her way of coping.

engaging her feet, she danced
abandoned to the night .
Curvature of her neck
arching back in moonlight.

I’ve made mistakes.
Love as a contest.
Love as war.

I’ve capitulated sometimes,
and they’ve done the same.
But that’s not compromise,
and not solid ground.

It took me some time
to find love I could savor,
like the first bite of strawberry jam on toast,
just like that, but all of the time.