to rain and fog
and a winter shy
enough
to only cool your coffee
just enough to drink
by the time you get home
Tuesday
•17 January, 2012 • Leave a CommentDamocles
•16 January, 2012 • Leave a Commentthe sky is heavy
the sky is silent
ashen drumming
fingers of the night
tears of the clouds
hold your breath
exhale
shadow of a killing frost
the sky is heavy
the sky is silent
silent burden
on the ancients
layer after layer
glassy and cold
dreaded dreaming
catastrophe
cacaphony
the sky is dark
darkness all
the sky will freeze
before it falls
Sanctuary
•5 January, 2012 • Leave a Commentin time
for time conquers
all
we may lose
the pictures,
moments clung to
by mortal frailties
empty spaces
echo something
beautiful
we may lose
the time
unconquerable
but spent so fast
but you, I’ll keep
divine memoir
dearest heart
I’ll keep this safe
I’ll keep this always
there will be no purge
of memory
when the silence
comes for me
I’ll sing
XI: Sunset
•1 January, 2012 • Leave a Commentcut and dried
a song sung low
but heartfelt
what day is it…?
I sang to the ocean
I sang to the sky
I sang to her, and she
she answered
that was something new
unlike the falling
(it’s the hitting the ground that hurts)
when you’ve nowhere to land
home is a place
to land your heart
sometimes even
a place to sleep
or not so often
when your heart’s out
walking in the countryside
searching for the way
home
seems so much
more
so much farther
when you’ve seen the world
lived the world
by days, by air
by train, by steps
to wander is to live
to return
is to reflect
you are a reflection
of yourself
as is the sunrise
on the water
the ripples, evidence
of your travails
the waves
though gentle
are your scars
sometimes
when an ending’s a beginning
when trepidation turns to
confidence
and comfort
when a dream just lies awake
in perfect prose
when you even dare to speak
the words you know
might prove you wrong
the words that you have hidden
all along
I’ve heard of hoping
but some things are better left
to disbelief
most of all I miss the sky
we’ve strength enough for sorrow
a tragedy for two
but oft averted
by a voice
by a moment
by a choice
I’m still afraid, but I understand
and I’m waiting to fly
willing to fall
into these sunsets
that I’ve captured
for a heart held
honest
homespun
fairytale
sometimes I’m sentimental like that
cut and dried
a song sung low
but heartfelt
sing it back to me
By Halves (VI)
•25 December, 2011 • Leave a CommentOne eye,
fluttered shut
and tilted away
-just
One hand,
brushed lightly
held so tender
held so
-close
One shoulder,
stalwart refuge
comfort claimed
-your eyes,
wide with sleeplessness
green and brown
by halves
a whole so utterly
enthralling
still
Boundless
•11 December, 2011 • Leave a Commentanyone who tells you
the human heart
doesn’t feel
clearly underestimates
just how smart it is
for the head
to outsource a few of those.
Today Is Friday
•10 December, 2011 • Leave a Commentfalling apart is
not a feeling that i’d like
to get to know well
another place at
some other time; i don’t know
but i start with sleep
Versus The Sun
•13 November, 2011 • 1 CommentI don’t want to be here
and, well, you have to…
but it’s the time of year
where both of us
will become accustomed
to a lie-in.
This twilight vigil
solemn ritual
a happenstance
a tragedy of time
because neither of us can sleep
when it’s this light
the blazing sky
just waits to get it right
and so do I
you’ll find me here
set up for the sunlight show
to watch it come
to watch it go
and this obsession
inexplicable
the results
so very mystical
and quite worth every moment spent.
And so I take this time
at a time not often taken
and spend this morning hour
defiant of the day.
White Wings
•11 November, 2011 • Leave a CommentThe winds they whisper
through the pines
past the lakeshore
to the sky, the sunset far away.
They tell me France is nice this time of year.
The winds they whisper
through the pines
across the beaches
to the shore, to a home so far away.
They told me France was nice this time of year;
I might see home before the winter.
The white wings whisper
through the pines
across the waves
from far-off beaches, coming home.
They tell me France is nice this time of year.
I remember.
Surrealisme II (The Morning After)
•7 November, 2011 • Leave a Commentsuch a lovely day
to be trapped inside your mind
terrorized by dreams
just half-remembered
impressions are all that’s left
no less disturbing
