The Woods Campground-Morning

The frictional sound of zippers
is like a morning bray, as flaps of
tents are opened to a new day.

I emerge from my nylon cocoon,
with pre-slumber memories of
stars and a crescent-moon.

The dew on the grass
bathes my bare feet,
in a cool, comforting grasp.

Hares scamper on silent paws.
Birds of the day zip through the air.
Crows belt-out morning caws.
A Woodpecker, keeps the beat,
as is his flair.

I can only marvel at these
natural blends,
that I only experience
on weekends.

I should be as a
human being,
to join in this
eternal spring

But:
I am a stranger,
a visitor,
an auslander.

Enjoy, do not touch,
do not adhere,
and then leave as if
you were never here.

TP.

Gregory: An Impression of the Artist

Brush strokes that glide
like an ice skater in a triple axel.

Colors splash across a canvas
evocative of joys past and present.

An edible still-life,
an escapist landscape.

A portrait that captures your essence.

An abstract that reveals
as much as conceals.

An artist that strives for
the perfect color, the perfect line.

The Gallery holds your art.
The gallery does not hold you.

TP.

Scent Memory

A candle burns
slowly.

Its scent fills the
room.

I lie in bed ready for
sleep.

I must snuff the candle
out.

Thoughts revolve around a
scent.

I do not want to lose that
memory.

I close my eyes and
dream.


I awaken alive,
to a candle that has
died.

TP.

"W" (for Harry's kids)

Mister Woolf
is a wolf,
you know.
He roams the forest
in fancy clothes.

He travels solo
through hill and glen,
this dashing lobo,
hither and yon,
now and again.

Are you afraid
of Mister Woolf’s mood?
With your curious mind,
like the Three Pigs and
Red Riding Hood.
Don’t be, he’s not that kind.

The Wraith that
whispers in his ears,
he tries to ignore.
Reminding him of instincts
of thousands of years.
He wants a life
that gives him more.

Is Mister Woolf like you?
Somewhat different.
Somewhat new.
Sometimes confident.
Sometimes blue.

So follow this tale,
to its end,
and its moral , regale,
to your favorite friend; YOU!

(for Harry Burnett’s novel: Mr. Woolf)

Rose Calabria

“Rose Calabria”, the voice in my head
woke me up, scared the hell-out-of-me.
I had not heard that name mentioned
in decades.

You see, I never knew Rose Calabria.

My mother and aunt would sometimes
mention her name in somewhat hushed
tones.

Usually people spoken-of, in sotto voce,
were either male femina or Santa Marias.
Which one was Rose Calabria;
I never knew.

Maybe a relative or in-law, and her last name,
could have just been a place name,
like Joe Napoli or Tony Roma.
Either way, it haunted me that Rose Calabria
and all of those family members were all
gone too quickly.

Maybe Rose Calabria spoke her name,
for me to remember those times,
that evaporated like steam,
gone before I even noticed.


TP

10/11/12

“Do I dare disturb the Universe?….”
The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufock
TS Eliot

10/11/12

Do I dare declare?
“I am Gay”
on this
National Coming-out Day.

Do I dare re-set?
to join my crowd,
OUT of the closet,
“for-cryin’-out-loud.”

Or.

Do I live the legacy?
of all those silent souls,
in the shadow of hypocrisy,
by acting in two roles.

TP.