S.B.T. 335

picasso's wives

they were open hearted

witch he couldnt live with/out

they left something

flammabull

a lump of charcoal,

a string of oiled candlewick

a molotov cocktail

in fact every parting

was an epiphany of sorts

made of steamclouds sizzling

rising from iron tanks, not

just some flame

hissing in the rain

a settled not so fine final deal

left on an anvil of undefined space

heavenly cold and planely steel

there in the studio, next to the wagonwheel

now whenever he unbuttons lace

he sees not only half a face

the other half may be

some place he cannot see

pablo will never forget those girls

~ a phantompink haunting rises n swirls ~

S.B.T. 334

S.B.T. 333

for the love of it

what was taken from a passing wind of everyday life, to record vicissitudes of history poetically?

a word, chosen from the tangle, rescued from darkness and given a song, unchained melody,

i shall appropriate the word, with emotional sensitivity without artifice or forced redemptions it might be acrobatic, or tap lightly, or hit like a slap, or fall like leaves and lace released in an unimpeachable creative honesty and caught by an irreplaceable feeling___ say what?

desiring further recourse, i shall fuel the page with a lengthy partition

in the attempt to quench and satisfy my free thirst for meaning.

orangecherry lovelipop

S.B.T. 332

abel

merla


merry christmas

two of the ones i said goodbye to, who left the shelter and went to their new homes finally and hopefully happily.
goodbye sweet little ones, sigh, take care, and merry christmas!

each and every one is

a precious gift and i hope

they are received with gratitude

and met with love and friendship, happiness and lots of play,

good food, toys, attention and smiles.

and i hope good people will open their hearts and homes to homeless shelter critters.

amen.

S.B.T. 331

flagrante delicto

catch

a ball hurling

toward the glove

from a pitch wound round

it comes

from where

it goes how it lands

a trail w/skidmarks

this one come open

tossed 2 the bullpen

markt X with a sharpie

and rolled in2 a dead ball bin

a new one sails to the mound

windup, throw, hit,

catch it getting

caught

the ref shouts OUT

oh beautiful green in the field

collective dirt and dew

wind rambles thru

blades waving

S.B.T. 330

b u l l f r o g

sometimes a really big bullfrog

is not the way it seems

tho i recognize the face and eyes

from seeing them in dreams

S.B.T. 329

a mirror

a gentle pool

of wishes

in a jungle

and a drop falls

and rolls

among all other

wobbles, swells

and dreams

come true