Zoe’s Butterflies

If you close your eyes
And open your ears
You hear September approaching,
In the little, dry leaves,
That are beginning to fall,
They do not nose dive,
They take their time,
Circling slowly,
Swinging side to side,
As if saying – “What’s the rush?”
The chill of the evening,
Sneaking in,
As if apologizing,
For interrupting summer,
The last butterflies
That my little Zoe loves so much,
Are disappearing,
You do not see them anymore,
The last showing of flapping wings
Was a week ago!
Thunder and lightning are taking over nights,
Sign of ominous things to come,
Worry not my little Zoe,
The butterflies will soon be here again.


So, I am not a part of your life,
You are no longer, my wife
That is all fine and good,
And has long been, understood
Yet, there are certain behavioural codes of conduct
Even in a person, set to self-destruct,
These codes are never broken,
Sort of an agreement, not written nor spoken,
My children, are my children, this will not change
No matter how hard you try, or are deranged,
The little ones are mine, as they are yours
You will never close these doors,
Omitting my name, from the family frame
Shows weakness, and was incredibly lame

Dead but not buried

I am a poet, without words
A writer, without verbs
I am a patriot, without a country
A composer, without music
I am music, without notes
A symphony, without strings
I am a husband, without a wife
A father, without children
I am a grand-pa, without grand children
A past, without future
I am drowning, without an ocean
Am burning, without a fire
I am locked, and not in jail
And now
I am dead, and am not buried