| butterfly those most eager to crush the wings the color the beauty the fragility the soul are most bound to feel nothing at all in its passing yet remain most affected of all by its absence |
Hope
Regrets that run so deeply
Our vanity of fears
Lie jumbled in reflections
As in a house of mirrors
Where hope is not a lightning bolt
That lights up all the night
But plays amongst the shadows
Til held captive in the light
| seconds to minutes minutes to hours hands ever reaching from clocks in their towers strike on the hour again on the half can you hear what they say so intent on your path? half past eleven a quarter ‘til one time flows as a river until day is done |
Passage Walking over bright green knoll knotted yellow with dandelions Then down the other side, There lies a dark and narrow passage through a stand of weeping oaks, One I have seen but never tried A light breeze blows, graceful boughs bow Beckoning me to go where I have never been, Shadows darken, move beyond line of sight As I breach the brink of light and dark and go within; Cool leafy whisperings enfold and embolden me to go on Down primordial path carpeted, spongy moss upon rich loam; Fragile ferns rise unfurling, fronds uncurling, Crystal breeze sends white-plumed seedlings swirling up, up, into an emerald dome And down through mottled shards of light in turn Echoes call of a mockingbird, unseen yet easily heard; Singing sonnets from another time, an age of grace, Things no one here can ever replace in thought or word A bend in path, another still, I come upon a lovely rill Water cold and clear spills over rounded stones The blood and bones of Mother Earth—her worth, her dearth, Amid effervescence, a sobering quiescence—both plaintive intones To those who will hear her From somewhere below a semi growls low, grinding, climbing, winding its way up From the city not so far away; Stirs a dragonfly (symbol of long life, I muse—but exactly whose?) from its post Upon a reed and it hovers nearby as if to say, “I’ll lead if only you will follow,” Then quick as a flash vanishes away deep into the hollow Overhead, a rumble—soon winds come making dry leaves tumble, And then a light, warm rain; It is only here I find release from pain, soul-healing peace, And yet I’m aimless like a lost lamb: Shall I go, shall I remain? My heart is torn—I’m city born, I don’t belong, I'm not from here. But everything tells me I am. |
“I love you,” he said, “But maybe just not enough.” I frowned, then smiled, My face hidden in the clouds and as they parted Thankful for the sudden illumination, I whispered back, “But how perfectly splendid," and then my heart lost in the night Wept with the gibbous moon. |
Day finds me—
Reeling giddily ‘round me
All done up in golden dress
And azure scarves
Urging me to join the dance
But I, lost in my trance
Choose not to see
Eve arrives—
Dressed in hooded satin cloak
With longbow drawn
Shoots silver arrows
Up through velvet black
To pierce the dark
And make the stars
But even that, I must confess,
Does not impress—
With dogged resolve I sit
Through wretched call of Whippoorwill
And count the hours—
For only Dawn
Brings roses.
Reeling giddily ‘round me
All done up in golden dress
And azure scarves
Urging me to join the dance
But I, lost in my trance
Choose not to see
Eve arrives—
Dressed in hooded satin cloak
With longbow drawn
Shoots silver arrows
Up through velvet black
To pierce the dark
And make the stars
But even that, I must confess,
Does not impress—
With dogged resolve I sit
Through wretched call of Whippoorwill
And count the hours—
For only Dawn
Brings roses.
Look through the long window How lightning rips through darkness in Bright jagged lines How Life casts its essence upon the Dark face of the Void Searing the heart of it Branding memories into a smooth and Vacant hide Changing it Forever Where there was Nothing at all before I believe in things that never were |
Garden of
Poetry
Poetry
Oh! nature's noblest gift--my grey
goose quill;
Slave of my thoughts, obedient to
my will,
Torn from thy parent bird to form a
pen,
That mighty instrument of little
men!
--Lord Byron
goose quill;
Slave of my thoughts, obedient to
my will,
Torn from thy parent bird to form a
pen,
That mighty instrument of little
men!
--Lord Byron
 |
Please peruse my garden/nature gallery at
your leisure.
The works are copyrighted, and all I ask is
that you ask permission before using any
of my writing elsewhere.
 | |  |
Anger
Be gone
Lest you set aflame
The dry Tender of my spirit
Letting go
To rage inside
A white-hot inferno
Smothering
All that I am
Leaving nothing
But your foul smudge
Of empty satisfaction
My life
A brittle cinder
Grown cold
Be gone
Lest you set aflame
The dry Tender of my spirit
Letting go
To rage inside
A white-hot inferno
Smothering
All that I am
Leaving nothing
But your foul smudge
Of empty satisfaction
My life
A brittle cinder
Grown cold
Little
Old woman
Gray as the day
Head bent, windblown
Her left hand guides a cane
To steady herself upon wet, uneven asphalt
And with her right holds high a leopard print umbrella
As one would wield a flaming torch against the unknown
Old woman
Gray as the day
Head bent, windblown
Her left hand guides a cane
To steady herself upon wet, uneven asphalt
And with her right holds high a leopard print umbrella
As one would wield a flaming torch against the unknown
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