A sonorous ship's

horn echoes across the dark

river mournfully 

The pear, perfectly

ripe, plucked from the tree, tastes of 

life, love, maybe lust 

The blood is up to

our knees, but pretend it's just

a big screen TV

Pine needles crackle 

underfoot amid the warm

waning summer days 

The metallic taste 

of the smoke and the missing

 posters remain etched 

Through broken glass smoked

with age a vague reflection 

of the self is born 

The light already 

fading by the time you read

this, but warmth remains 

Adonis once, now

twisted and aged but his voice

still exudes beauty

The memory may

not be recalled, but the past 

is always present

Belabor the point 

or point the finger like a 

gun that shoots ill will 

I once rambled with

Rabelais but now I laze 

about with Lao Tzu 

Farewell and godspeed 

to yet another mentor 

who has passed away 

This sentence hung on

by a thread until swiftly 

sewn back up again

The sunflowers hang

their heads knowing their season 

is nearing its end 

The house is bursting

with forgotten books and dead 

magazines, unread