Seasons, to the Season

Spring streams, Summer dreams, no longer to be seen

for they have come to be dry, the gold, yellow, brown and red

of what will no longer be able to show it’s faces in green

for they leave behind the ties that bind – leaves are dead

laying across the forests, fields, lawns, streets - leaves have fled

the buds of spring, the full bloom of summer, in the death of Autumn days

to decay from life, from memory, form sight, into other ways

that become the life – a part of something new.

Another perspective to see, another point of view

for those who want to know, even though, we are few.

Once again, – as has for millions and millions of year –

comes an end, a change to all that reaches out – with tears –

as it touches the edges of deaths cold, decaying door

leaving all to the light, with nothing more

as the light of day continues to shrink from view

and the darkness of night expands upon me and you,

becoming ghostly shadows that make up our nightly stew.

Insight

My lifeless, brown eyes, see the real deal.

My perceptive, inner eye, knows the feel,

as I look through the windows to my soul,

into the reflections, of all it is, I think I know

as the seasons pass me by, leaving one more to go

through – foe ever how long – before I become my soul.

Words before Children’s eyes

 Far to many - these days – play on keyboards they have seen.

As desire sick, thoughts depraved, become words on a screen

That tell all who can see, what they truly mean,

what is to know, in what they show, of what they have been

and what they are, but it takes a mature eye, so keen,

to see, to understand, to know the mind of a fiend.

This is not the place - for young minds – in my dream scene.

 The Tao Of

Muhammad Ali - CC

Words flying by my eyes, of life being lived

– despite the hardships of a debilitating, diseased body –

on the wings of contentment, of satisfaction, of accomplishment

beyond that of us mere mortals and in their passing,

soft sodium laden droplets fall onto the reality of,

and life, as it is for the hand, the soul of the one who reads

and writes, dies and cries, morns the loss of the Great.

B. J. “A” 2 ( Bill . )

October 20^th 2002