For my brother. Written in 1988.
( April is poetry month. Poem number five. I found a old journal from 1988. This poem was never published. Old words, old sadness. Become leftover pain, we learn to live with.) For… Continue reading
( April is poetry month. Poem number five. I found a old journal from 1988. This poem was never published. Old words, old sadness. Become leftover pain, we learn to live with.) For… Continue reading
I hope, I don’t fall in love with you.. I found her sitting alone on the sand at the Seaside beach. You held your whiskey tightly and you wanted to be alone. I… Continue reading
Pieces of April…. My dreamland beauty, she comes to my mind in early April.The cold of Winter almost gone and I remember our Spring time kisses,our Spring time dances with Lake Michigan.I loved… Continue reading
The lucky or the crazy. A Poem by Coyote Poetry “I lived on the coastline of California for three years. No better place to be. “ The lucky or the crazy? We danced… Continue reading
The dance A Poem by Coyote Poetry Many kinds of opportunities for the dance. A wise person is fearless in life. If you take no chances. You won’t know what you could of done… Continue reading
The Jazzy Thursday… The jazz is best on Sunday night in Austin, Texas. Less people roaming the city and the Jazz men are playing their song sweetly and so damn good. The Thursday… Continue reading
On the thread of a word.. (Freedom is only the distance between the hunter and his prey.) Bei Dao Just like a hurricane from hell.You twisted my world from a lonely existence to… Continue reading
Dreams can become nightmares. Nightmares can become sweet dreams one day. Fool’s wish and lover’s hold on. (Written on 19 April 1985) I remember when I rushed home to fall into your arms.We… Continue reading
Cherry wine.. Once my life was better. I had yearly family reunions, kind voices to give me strength and I could accomplish anything. I didn’t know. Life is ever-changing. Today my folly, today… Continue reading
What is ugly? What is beautiful? He watched the pretty artist on the Monterey pier. He brought her coffee and a salad. He sat and he wrote words for no-one. “What is ugly?… Continue reading