He spoke of how he was invincible -

Eternal, unable to die

So sure of himself, I half expect for

Him to - like his namesake -

Resurrect from the casket,

For a single finger to arise from the soft earth,

A final statement before he rests easy

For the first time in his short life

No, I am not religious,

Though if I were

I wouldn’t think twice

Before saying he must be

Rotting in hell as I write 

Ramen, or a bread sandwich.

Bread on bread on bread.

Tastes like poverty.

However, I find it leaves a worse taste in my mouth when all I get fed is greed and judgement.

That we are bred to see compassion and care as illegitimate, when stacked against personal gain, specifically of a financial nature, seems insane to me.

Why humanity??

This is not nature!

This is not natural, in a world where we are eternally bonded through sharing simple existence, I'm perplexed at the absence of recedence from such shallow material things.

What of our dreams of peace? They seem only appreciated when they are all we can afford.

All of the poor, disheartened, and all of the bored faces staring blankly at need, because they've not been nourished in this society, so who are they to be, the ones to break that ice? I wish that people could be nice, and trust in the fact that you are provided for by what you invest. Sometimes with interest!

So give with the idea of doing so, just as you'd wish to receive. Give with the only reason for intent being to fight that bastard greed, and to feed needs in your direct line of sight. If everyone did this, the world just might be a better, more together place. Plus, that awful poverty taste could be washed down with all the sugar we could muster, by giving to your neighbor and loving eachother. It could be pretty sweet indeed. Think, instead of 'what's in it for me?', it could be, 'what's in it for the community?". A worldly view that is sure to include you, so it is not like we wouldn't all be considered.

Just something I consider, while I dig through my purse for cash on an off ramp, getting "spanged" by another disabled veteran. He is just asking for change, but then again i guess, really, I am too...

He was a stranger when he first caught my eye. Our love is familiar, yet unique.

You have been me. Perhaps you fell in love with him as I did.

I hold no jealousy. I am glad we have this to share, Reader.

There are no words for what we are, yet words are the very foundation of what we are.

He made me things, such beautiful things, gifts that I shall hold dear all my life, gifts I hope my children will one day love as well.

I have never met him.

I know what he is afraid of. I know what he thinks is right in the world, and what he thinks is wrong.

He is one of my first loves, but I am far from the first to love him.

He will never know my name.

I like to think he loved me too, distantly, as a concept. Maybe he didn’t anticipate me. Maybe he saw me as a certainty.

He is not the only one I love, as I am not the only one to love him. I have so very many loves, but I doubt he’d hold them against me. I’m sure he had his own.

I’ve never visited his grave, a century old and God-knows-where. Why should I mourn? He lives in my hands and on my shelf.

I don’t think he ever wanted flowers from me. I trust my love is enough.

But that isn’t on the pages he left for me.

When first I saw him, he was a name stamped in golden ink, on a stack of well-bound pages at the very end of the shelf at a bookstore I’d never been to, surrounded by others I could easily fall in love with.

I don’t know how he took his coffee in the mornings, or if, perhaps, he preferred tea.

I know only what he felt was valuable enough to carve out of ink and bind with thread, preserved for me a hundred years down the line.

He loved me so much he gave me a story.

Perhaps he loved the story so much he gave it to me.

He is a stranger, long dead.

Yet he is no stranger to those that have fallen in love with him,

No stranger to those that have taken the time to study his gift.

We know him well. 

The stranger knocked upon the door,

A creaking, wooden throb,

And someone on the other side

Unlatched and turned the knob.

Uncertainty, a soft, "Hello,"

And, "May I use your phone?"

The person on the other side

Appeared to be alone.

An observation taken in,

No pictures on the wall.

He pointed somewhere down the way-

"Go on and make a call."

The thunder boomed; the stranger stalled

As wires were cut instead.

The gentleman began to sense

A subtle hint of dread.

A conversation thus ensued-

"So what has brought you out?

The rain has flooded everything,

And wiped away the drought.

Say, did you walk, or did you drive?

Why don't I take your coat?"

The stranger slowly moved his arms,

A sentimental gloat.

The water from the pouring skies

Enveloped cloth and shoe.

"Say, would you like a place to sleep?

I'll leave it up to you."

The person on the other side

Discarded his mistrust.

The stranger said his tire was flat,

And shed the muddy crust.

"The phone won't work," he also said.

"It could just be the storm.

Perhaps I will stay here tonight,

To keep me safe and warm."

The patron of the house agreed.

He hadn't seen the wire.

The chilly dampness prompted him

To quickly build a fire.

"You have a name? They call me Ed.

My wife was Verna Dean.

She passed away five years ago

And left me here as seen.

I guess it's really not so bad.

We never had a child.

I loved that Verna awful much,"

He said and sadly smiled.

"No property to divvy up.

The bank will get it all.

Say, do you want to try again

To go and make that call?"

The stranger grinned and left the flame

As to the phone he strode.

Within his pocket, knives and twine

In hiding seemed to goad.

A plan was formed- he'd kill the man;

Eviscerate him whole.

The twine would keep him firmly held;

The knife would steal his soul.

A lusty surge erupted hence;

A wicked bit of sin.

The stranger hadn't noticed yet

That someone else came in.

About the time a shadow fell,

He spun to meet a pan.

The room around him faded out

As eyes looked on a man.

A day or two it seemed had passed,

And when he woke all tied,

The stranger gazed upon old Ed

Who simply said, "You lied."

Reversing thoughts, the moment fled

And Ed said in a lean,

"No worries, stranger. None at all.

Hey, look, here's Verna Dean!"

He looked upon a wraith in rage;

It seemed his little lie

Combusted in a burning fit-

He didn't want to die.

So many victims in his life,

Some fifty bodies strewn.

And now he was the victim; now

The pain to him was known.

The stranger fought against the twine,

And noticed by his bed

The knife once in his pocket left

A trail of something red.

A bowl filled full of organs sat

As Verna poured some salt.

She exited with all of them.

"You know, this is your fault.

We demons wait for just the day

The guilty take the bait

And play with matches one last time-

I simply cannot wait

To taste the death within your flesh;

The venom in your gut.

So now you know the way they felt-

Hey, you've got quite a cut!"

The person on the other side

Removed his human skin-

Before his wife came back for more,

He offered with a grin:

"Say, stranger, is there anything

You'd like to say at all?"

I looked at all the blood and said,

"I'd like to make that call ... "

Beauty she says

Falling fast into an open portrait, the visage of light trickling open doors in strange places

his eyes open doorways and spin halls between his wrists, parting lips that speak like bubbling streams

with an awkward embodiment of nature and tenderness in his hands like soothing song

Breathing forth into her

Beauty he says

Hearts perched on balance beams

of dripping tendrils of rain,

thundering in echoes of our past

as lightning rides on golden steeds.

Plume of my pen paints the skies

cerulean inspiration as moon

falls to his knees, yielding

to sphere of butterscotch sun.

Cracked wisps of madness explore

sky on wings letting go the fragile hush

of broken thoughts, reflecting mirrors

of life’s onslaughts in magical sky.

Windy fingertips breathe on my throat,

fire in sky strengthens heated desire

in billowed swirls of cushioned passion.

Skyward laughter of bubbles hangs

upside down from trapeze of stars.

Paper lanterns in sky of glassy light

peek through cloudy puffed windows -

azure vault of life to those who thirst.

Stars sparkle

And

Breathe magic

Onto my skin.

Darkness

And

Near-invisible

Clouds

Press into my eyes

And

Lay protectively

Over my

Chest.

The lightest of breezes

Ripples across my arms

And

Reassures me

That my secrets

Are safe.

Feel my heart slow

As peace pervades.

Feel my mind empty

As silence ensues.

Know that here

I am safe.

Know that

The sky knows me

Better

Than

You ever will.

Upon her skin

I will own my notes

The quill touches deep

Into the senses

My music is played

Upon her skin

For she will sing

As the master plays

His symphony of love

Beyond the moon she goes to rest,

A princess sound asleep.

And in the cinematic vest,

Her presence we will will keep.

The warring stars will settle down,

As honoring her place

A million people mark her crown,

And mourn her lovely face.

The empire of the dying torch 

Has burned its final flame.

As none alive escape its scorch,

We join and say her name ...

Oh, Leia, born of Jedi blood 

On Alderann you grew,

In tune with nature's ebbing flood

A marvel, sound and true.

The presence of the Force is strong 

And wills is to unite.

Untimely death has spilled along 

A turmoil black as night.

Go be with Yoda, Ben, and Han,

Release into the air,

For now you join with Alderaan;

The angels take you there.

Disturbance in the universe,

For everyone has heard

Another 2016 curse,

Ridiculous, absurd,

Has captured yet another breath;

Removed from us delight.

But Carrie Fisher battled death;

She gave it quite a fight!

And all together, in the course,

We suffer in regret

As Princess Leia joins the Force,

A name we won't forget ...