Those natural numbers seem lonely
sitting there counting upward
but never irregularly
or like a prime-
One number
can’t divide
except itself

I’m prime and natural
irregular and rational-
sometimes not.

But wanting to count
I’m chasing those numbers
looking for equations
that equal peace.



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This month is international Guitar Month!  Break out your old instrument and enjoy the sounds!

Where is the horse and rider?
Where is the sword that was broken?
they have gone with the wind,
where the storms flee in winter
leaving ice and snow
a cold that clings
like ice to the pine needles,

Yes, needles that break us.

Each have gone away,
till horse, rider, sword
are lost in the past.

As if the rider
had no honor,
as if the horse, sword, cause
was a myth
we wished were true-
a story told over fires
where the smoke trails
into loopy rope spirals.


I’m counting hours
till alone
when the stars form straight lines
and the mass is right.
Then the pulling draws me out
and I write my lines.

Lines that hook to heart
-a strange arrangement
hooked to heart
like pumping blood over
a painting
then analyzing the cells
-yes that one is white
and fighting
that one red and carrying

if I knew them all,
it might be good.