One still small room
Locked in perpetual memory
Spinning out into old dreams
Half remembered only now
In the witching hour when all else sleeps
The mind ventures to old territory –
Decades old delusions in the somnatic realm
The walls close in
I cannot get out
Thus it has been
Thus it will be
The dreams call and chatter
Like a thousand voices
Whispering and yelling simultaneously
Quiet as death
Violent as memory
Dark as events which never happened
Then sleep comes
And the light shines in the window pane
Cracking through with all the glory of a day.
The clock ticks ever onward
(Or so I’ve heard before)
Yet when I leave it to itself,
It comes around again,
For now, it is but half past ten,
And tomorrow it will still be ten.
flit around the bushes.
Fireflies glow up above,
till only night remains,
lit by the stars in the bushes.
From the crowd passing on the street,
The well of noise which struck the spring
Roars forth like its northern cousin,
The great Niagara, shouting down
The ones who come beneath its spray.
No soul stands out, though some dress up.
What is the droplet to the roar?
All pass into the waters flow
Save one old man in rags
Whose music passes through the crowd
And looks into your eyes.
Inspired by The Old Musician by Edouard Manet
Foot falls freeze the mind
The race brings all things to a stop
The only argument is the one two step
The progression forward beyond all stagnation
The race ends at its beginning
After the reckless motion forward
Everything goes on as it once did
Feet thaw as feeling returns
Decisions can no longer be frozen.
Where do we turn when nature has been dredged of images?
When the sky larks have been compared to philosophy one too many times,
And every rhyme for dove has been thoroughly explored?
When the grey fingers of morning are nothing more than mist,
And the setting sun is simply colors fading to black?
Nature has long been our partner in the quest to metaphorize
Our lives to something we can grasp and understand.
Yet when the gloaming fades to the deep dark of night
And the sky larks are nesting with the doves
We still have each other and conversation until dawn.
We spend our life on trifles
Until we have nothing left
now we eat berries with impunity
we keep animals behind fences
we pass the life work of explorers
as we fly our coaches overhead
Gardeners have been killed by a love of horticulture
Nature enthusiasts are killed exploring what they love
I sit and spend my hours typing words
In the end it is always the small things that kill us
The misplaced step,
The rocks that make us trip,
The small berry,
The hunched back from bad posture,
Always traced back to a trifling choice
There is no choice that doesn’t end in death
We must choose our killers carefully.
How do you choose your favorite color?
“If you swing a bucket fast enough
No berries will drop out.
Look for the flash of blue
Falling to the earth from the silver ship.”
I did, but I saw only the blue sky,
The twinkle in two blue eyes
And only after I stretched and jumped
Peering into the ship
Did I see the crew of berries –
Blue and calm as a mountain lake,
Fresh and sweeter than the water.
June creaks with warmth
Joints limber up after winter
Rocking chairs bob on the porch
As the air stretches for summer.
The songbird’s throaty chuckle
Echoes from the leafy depths
He knows the summer’s secrets
He hears the wind’s whispered breath
He will not speak his knowledge
Except in riddled verse
Other songs have fairer notes
His voice is rough with mirth
But even though I stop to hear
I cannot understand
The joke is too complex for me
I cannot read the land