The foxicorn's horn
is his protection, seduction 
and influence.

The sun is always
shining. Even when it's hiding
behind some clouds.

All the way home I 
wrote a story in my head 
about those two 'birds.

I'm a slave to it.
It takes over my life. Morn,
noon and every night.

The fog lays low
today, just above my head,
making me feel cozy.

I'll write the fairy
tale and you can be the magic
that makes it so.

He stirred in his sleep
and I wanted so badly 
to be next to him.

I walked from the dark

night into the day's light and 

lighter shades of blue.

I walked through Summer
with the roses, the shade, the 
dew drops close behind.

It was about her
hat and his casualness in
the hot sunny shade.

We told ghost stories
all night or, rather, it was 
an invitation.

We talked of ghosts then 
I was left alone with one 
standing behind me.

Wanda J. played above
while she wrote feverishly 
in her journal.

The baby had inspired
her, so, she wrote a story 
from end to end.

These poems are like 

a painting for you to see 

what stars I wish on.

What is paradise,
Mom? I don't know, My Sweet Child. 
I've yet to go there.

The realtor comes each
day to water the lawn in 
his white linen pants.

A lighthouse, the sea, 
a boat adrift, the moon hangs
large, perfectly white.

The rib guy always
calls me darlin' when I walk
by in the morning.

Lives are never lost. 
Only on another journey
somewhere far off.