Dear January

Dear January, you have been doing this every year. And you look great. The beginning always looks great. You have only come to make this year look better.

the calendar 
in January's chill
spring blossoms

Dear January, speak poetry and embrace me with your eloquence. Make spring bloom luminescent ...make what is empty, dark....effervescent. let nectar flow from lips of flowers and let butterflies carry their fragrant dreams into mountains,  hills,  brooks ,streams, oceans and high seas spreading over earth..

Speak to me
Oh January
Tell the moon to twirl me silver, sun ignite my fire..let the stars wrap their light. .my eyes sparkle the constellations..

Wounded fingers quiver
Broken whispers of fear 
Let the wind be a balm 
To heal the sighs 
Of disease frightened people.

She Was Him, He Was Her

Poetry Partners # 29

She was him
He was her
They were one
They were free
She had eyes that knew
His heart’s glow
A smile that filled the space
When spring made its way to their eyes
In the zephyr’s abracadabra
All the places they were at a loss for words
They were cinder sparked by a flame that grew
Fed by warmth
Touch of a look
Running like blood in their veins

He had the wisdom of a young ink
Unstolen by time
Knowledge eternal
On eternity’s edge
Searching for a lost song
Their gently heaving breath finds the pulse of possibilities

golden shovel poem by ben Alexander of ‘The Skeptic’s Kaddish’

(in blank verse)

Temperature past the versing point, they
melted into glowing lava and were
blown with force through revelation's cinder
cone, as thick, boiling comprehension sparked
in their luminous core. Only then, by
quirk of fate or set destiny, did a
zephyr flow from their lips, fanning the flame
stolen for mortals from Olympus that
birthed human knowledge and steadily grew
across the face of Earth, as people fed
it with aspirations unstolen by
time. As one, they filled the space with soft warmth,
spring smiles, and the teasing, caressing touch
of their eternal words, the lost song of
which they two composed together in a
volume of abracadabras, its look
fraying and worn, with lines of script running
across its pages; letters slanted like
sloping volcanos and inked with goat blood.
Freely, crafting word worlds and timelines in
sync with one another's pulses and their
truth, they felt eternity in their veins.

Arely goes herbs

Once there  lived a man named Arely
Who grew himself a pot belly
He sowed wild oats in his stomach pot
Which thrived into a flowery Plot
His tummy became flora fauna friendly

They called him a tarzan heritage
The tourists came to see his advantage
Hé became a walking jungle
The herbivores came to mingle
Gobbled him up as herbage .