Sea Gate

at the edge of our restless land just before

the sea, where hope uses the flail

against the march of time,

lies the sea gate.

let us venture there, any dream

will carry us, in our sleep where

we meet, before the beauteous door

of the sea gate.

Wings

be weightless wind,

sunray guided,

who long last finds

welcome window slits

to ease into,

and there with haste

embrace the resting place

of  the silken scarf,

then move all through

its bright white soul,

twisting and turning,

making it become

blithe wings moving

gracefully as you depart.

Jazz

poetry is imagery.

imagine, and write what you see.

poetry is music’s song so

listen and sing what you hear,

then write it in smooth melody.

a line gives birth to another one

and so one is all

and can never be silenced

as each continues alone.

fleeting tones heard

ever more faintly

as imagination grows dim.

Franklin

seen him on many days,

not just me, he’s popular.

especially on the stairs

tugging at his leash

to stay outside when

his master insisted

inside, it’s time.

Franklin, with his 

welcome expression, 

and that inquiring face,

wondering I think,

what is this place

that I am born in?

oh, Franklin is famous

no doubt already,

owing that everyone

who meets him 

declares it so.

but come now, Franklin,

time to go inside.

wait for tomorrow, when

you will prance again,

down and up the sidewalks

in Mt. Vernon where you

are famous.