Writer • Musician
The afternoon counter he stands behind, The baker awaits the seven days' chimes. He's reminded of beauty, smiling through a long life. And to blue skies he stands to rise, With tears of joy, which stream from his eyes. He's an Englishman, born in the West End, he says. "Like to go back again, but …
Morning Star Cafe. Thursday. Portland. Might it be time to leave the Morning Star? Might it be time to leave your sweet beauty? Outside this place, awaits the day; And the rolling thunder, the falling rain Lays grace upon thee, far and away But it is not for me. I have this morning but dawn …
I I lament for the dying cigarette, Breathing its last into the cool morning air and lying in the middle of an empty road; This rolled up burning scrap paper into which the trials of men lie wrapped tight. Another wave of whisper into the sea, into the chorus of the morning saying "this is …
Where the winds dance so fierce and passerby enchant, Where the dreams lie low, steered, beneath the dim lit street lamps, I stand wide-eyed and smiling, though frozen cold and standing alone. This is a city, though never singing, so wise so old, for San Francisco. Where sad-eyed dogs they trot, and children remain away …
Ren Michael 