[Kay Syrah]

fallen years
ripple in the
fade of time
without you
changing
the landscape
of your hidden
geography
where grow roses,
that would
defeat stones.

[Soaring Feather]

Like a painting aged
flaking and chipping
flecks of scenes
and
wrapped in dusty
brown paper
the landscape
of my face changed
with deepened lines
mellowed attitude
sharp edges
worn round from
rubbing against
your square shoulders
you left before the
final show was staged
and my hair now silvered
limping into the golden years
crawling into a cold bed
might require flannel sheets
especially where the mattress dips
from your form...

[Camachee]

a one-eared
poet
seeks applause
from a mirrored
multitude
forgetting
that a crescendo
of cash
clashes
with vanity
and insanity