The Gate Before

to connect the dots. 

I was always going

to overfill a bucket

with poems. You would

eventually drive off waving

your hand like a

star on a spring. I'd

shoulder up another notebook

for the walk. My

hand would rather hold

a pencil. Yours would

accept a kiss from

a perfect stranger. You

were invited to walk

in gardens. I was

given the gate before

we even arrived. You

somehow managed to change

into a diamond, but

in a golden glued-down

seat. I was more

or less a ruby

in a skull's eye-socket

and yet we found

a way to laugh.

That's all I know

of this thing. Now

you sit somewhere outside

the wild feelings blowing

around in my heart,

ocean entering a dark

green tunnel of another 

new amazing day. There's 

nothing more to say 

that wouldn't take away 

its real voice and 

replace it with something 

less worth listening to. 

Bonus poems:

This isn't just another perfectly wasted day

 

To me. From here for instance it's

Still bursting full of little yellow flowers

Growing out and over the rocky walls

 

And with wild zooming honey bees barely

Missing your face as they chase the

Alluring fragrance to its central sticky source.

The soft sky is like a long

 

Silk covered road leading somewhere into a

Faraway dream. I breathe it all in

And smile. And in the middle of

All that free wondering I'm striding all

 

Alone down a leaf strewn bike path

Listening to a bunch of noisy insect

Camps talking over each other about the

End of this particular Summer's time on

 

The yearly Autumn stage. A few butterflies spark

And wave as they tumble past on

Their somersaulting way, hurrying to the secret

Mystic summit of their ancient societies. Perhaps

 

They'll come up with a clever butterfly

Way to save the planet from disappearing

Before I'm no longer able to participate.

One can always hope. There's no smoke

 

In the air today. I don't know

If that's a good thing or a

Bad, but I'm taking it as a

Sign for now of many miracles to come.

These

things are yours to avoid

answering. Although you hear me

well enough to assume any

action taken is to mean

something's spoken, our connection doesn't

have to get any deeper

than it already is, that'd

only be deceptive. I've reached

you, I haven't found you.

These are buds to awaken.

Whatever happens after that is

a harvest as old as

time. You shall be given

a glimpse into the heart

of a color, a memory

will be made into a

journey. But don't spend too

much dream power on talking

with ghosts. They'll only want

to haunt you in the

end, that's their nature, yours

is to finish going through

without finishing yourself in the

progress. These are yours to

float away now. I won't

do it. You are my

last attempt at modernism any

way. These are yours because

I am yours and because

we've come so very far from home.