You cannot miss me
for you always have
my poetry.

It’s what
rises up
from deep inside me.

Read those words
and you’ll come to know
not only my mind,
but my heart and soul.

Many have gone
to California
seeking fame,
gold,
wealth,
land,
riches.

You,
my son,
go to that Golden State
for a far more noble cause:
Love.
True love.
A father’s love.
The noblest cause
of all.

And when you arrive
with my love
at your side,
ask Him who is the Father
of all True Love
for help.
Then, think only to say
what is in your heart:
Love.

And if you listen,
and if you speak honestly,
and true,
from your heart,
you will be able to say,
as thousands in California
have before you:
“Eureka!”
“I’ve found it”.

And you will have.
And you will have them.
And they will have love,
and be loved.

How can I tell you,
deeply,
how I feel?

How knowing you
fills a hole
in my heart
completely?

There’s no desiring,
just inspiring,
hope,
and happiness,
as every day
you wend your way
to pinnacles
most only dream of.

And you inspire us all.

A phone call from my/
son’s friend saved his life. Yellow/
shirts are cheap, deep thanks.

I write because
I can’t stop.
It feels like me
to birth word-thoughts

Live into the universe,
screaming like newborns
with energy, life
and emotion.

If I were to cease,
like a woman in mid-labor cries,
I would scream in agony,
convulse, and die.

Not wanting to be found dead,
I choose to dream and write instead.

That wasn’t fun.
I was gone
into
a pool
of pity party poo.

But that’s through
and now I’m back
to doing what I do,
which is to
resonate hot,
because I’ll tell you what!
I am!

And the Femme
Fatale’
that becomes my pal
is gonna see;
and she’s gonna be
one lucky gal.

Say a prayer for me,/
and if it works, I may soon/
keep you company!

Are you, yet, in love?/
It may seem silly, but I/
thought I’d risk asking.

That I could once again/
lay in your arms,/
turn my face toward your charms/
and whisper, deep,/
words of understanding,/
questioning,/
probing,/
asking,/
as the sunrise/
created a halo/
around your hallowed face,/
and I felt peace.

She fantasizes/
there are muses other than/
she. She’s so naive.