Poetry

Looking up
into the sky
seeing all
of the Angels
crying
for all those that have died
only am I
of the wise.

But do not
throw your ashes
into the bay
for the flesh
does sear
and your soul

Euphoria! Hasten to my call.
Help, girl, with this arm curl; come
Quickly, my paramour

Help me to like this bench pressing
That makes me groan, growl, grimace
And quake, dear girl

Not a clambake, this thighsolator

Praise and thanks to God for life,
life derived from walking—strolling
in rural Cucamonga quietness;
life of ardor and peace, unwary or laden;

Life reveling in majestic countryside,
bare of foliage but sprinkled with rocks