A fake sanity with its wisdom
enlarges the space between the coarse
land of craft and sea of emotions
for stress to walk with soul
in sleep.
A dope for the last hurt in hurricane
at burning lake where I was collecting
the black seeds from the fallen tree
of love near the deck of house we built
on waves.
Do not corrupt the innocence of sky
enveloping the rage of sun. The call was
imminent from the dead leaves of autumn.
One day the anginous waste will become
seed vessels.
A further collection of poems, many from years in the Middle East, but also the California San Francisco and Central Coast areas (Santa Cruz, Carmel, Big Sur, Berkeley, etc.).
Dear readers, this is my third book of poems, and inside are a special collection of what have turned out to be not only MY personal favorites, but also the favorites of many of YOU. Some of these have never been available in print before...
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