Desirous winds
now swiftly sweep
down mountain slopes
of stone so steep -
where boughs of broken ash
are scattered;
random timber torn and tattered.

I retreat to find
my jade and ruby cup,
to make sweet love to rich red wine,
fill my cup clear up,
drink and drain the goblet dry
to claim its love as mine.

Take me all or none,
use me up,
and when you're done
wrap slender arms around my waist;
kiss me there, oh yes, and taste
of me behind the bower,
planting seeds of need
which soon will bloom
sweet nectar's flower.

Alluring is your kind appeal,
like shimmer on green bladed grass
with silver tips of morning dew.
I glory in each inch of skin
as I begin to gently stroke
and marvel at its golden hue.

The moss and mold of surface earth
leave banquet scents to please my nose
and I am giddy-high with mirth
remembering your painted toes
below your brightly colored clothes

I ponder as I wander this old field
once fertile with a decent yield,
now overused, some say abused,
for growth and life have not been fused.

The butler has a sadness in his eyes
I neither can dissect nor utilize;
lonely, I suppose, I wonder if he knows
one's life is but a grand surprise,
a farce that slowly grows
in drift toward death until life dies.

A poet pleases with his heart-felt runes
while singers please with oft sung tunes.
A painter paints to please,
on canvas or a wall,
but men of age in pain
don't gain or please at all.

Let us take this bitter time,
as winds whip high the mountain vine,
to retrospect our lives complete;
transparency without deceit.
We may just make a break-through
(though breaking through
is not the purpose of the game)
as we become both cast and crew
to watch a world flow slowly to our flame.

I once was young and now I'm old
but still I feel so brazen bold;
am I too old or still quite young
enough to sing the songs once sung,
not at the end--but just begun?