like
a monk’s brilliant mosaic
of colored sand
inspired by God
and then gone
with the wave of his hand
art may capture one
of beauty’s glorious
but fleeting moments
and ease the pain
of its stubborn impermanence

I have an eye
for sunsets in the sky
A feeling for a breeze
that rustles through the trees
An ear for the tears
falling from a rain
and the silence on a casual stroll
down a country lane

He came to study the brooding skies,
Of blues and pewter grays,
Before they bowed and curtsied,
To the lighter, warmer days
And paint emerging scenes of Spring,
With Winter in its shadows,
Among the empty, amber fields,
Sprouting into blissful meadows,
Of saving grace

The songs of birds
The morning mist
The cool, wet air
gently kissed
by the breaking sun
Before losers lose
and winners win
Before all the madness
can begin
the battle for the day
is all but won

I beseech thee dream weaver
For tomorrow's sake
May you spin no frightful yarn
that may force by bed awake
Grant me this one request
of a good night's sleep
So, when I rise, I'll be my best
from slumber long and deep

Why do we have
these crosses to bear?
Do our woes not fit us
like the clothes
that we wear?
We often ask God
"Could it be
I can’t see?”
and then the epiphany
It might just be me

Wise man say
the worth of a day
and the serene of between
it's highs and lows
lies not in what one does
for oneself
but, lies in what one
does for others

Nothing but the vastness
of it’s own empty space
for the mind
that so desperately
searches for words

She appears along the avenue
In Victorian elegance
Her feet bouncing beneath her skirt
As if itching for a dance
She twirls her lacy parasol
High into the air
Moves across a crowded walk
As if no one else was there
May dear sweet Eliza-Doo
Woven in the fabric of her time
I find myself an unhappy man
Living without her in mine

Imagine lying
in a lush green field
cradled within an ancient glen
Timeless is
the still life portrait
of what the gods
were like back then

I’ve noticed that wheat fields
are bare without crows
They seem to be missing
that brush of Van Gogh’s
Another sky bruised
by dreary November
in landscapes I can neither
forget nor remember

Oh, we who remain
betrothed to faith
yet, always manage to falter
If truth be known
we get cold feet
and leave it at the alter

I'd like to hear Mozart
from the starlings in Vienna
Then pull them from the azure
and put them into my piano

I'd like to see the cypress trees
waving in the wind
Pleading for my intention
to sketch them once again

Paint the weathered boats of Delft
along its waterway
Fill a mural with peasant girls
sleeping in the hay

When it's time to awaken
from this pleasant reverie
I'll need to take a step towards earth
and return to reality

So many rain clouds
One for each parade
Marching down
the streets of town
where smiles are unmade

If only for a day
I could be a leaf
a leaf that rides an Autumn wind
from a orange colored tree top
to a meandering stream of a Fall-bitten mountain side
adrift and yet content
with the random nature of the world

I float on a sea
of indigestible unease
riding the quells
of a roller coaster in hell
making deals with the fears
I cannot appease

On the inside
of the window pane
I hear the tapping
of a summer rain
It cools the fire
of the noonday sun
And all is still
until it’s done

I dropped my head the other day
and found myself
playing cards and tipping a beer
at a table in Miss Kitty’s saloon
I was waxing philosophical
about the life of a cowboy
living in the city of Dodge
when I was awakened by
these sirens from hell coming
from outside my window

The gift of modern living
is the gift that keeps on giving

He thought he was
a child of nature
Loving all creatures
you see
He couldn’t believe
what had just occurred
“How could this happen to me?”

As he sat in the road
all ******
talking to the EMT
he suspected
it was a woodpecker
that had mistaken his head
for a tree!

If there is but one hour
of lighthearted ease
And within that hour
a moment's peace
How do I think ill of the day
and dismiss myself
from among the grateful?

How are these colors of Autumn
possibly described by words?
It is like God speaking to us
through a prism of light
unique to the day
A special painting
that like a footprint in the sand
is erased by an evening tide
but never in our imaginations or our memories

Ambling through lives
Thirsting for meaning that seems
To turn to dust
Searching for a selfless direction
That may lead to all that inspires us

Tempted by a dark flame
We fear will consume our souls
In a desperate need of the salvation
Calling to us
From one side to the other
We walk a bridge of fire

Curse this hat upon my head
For it can’t keep the sun at bay
It won’t shield my eyes
From all the bugs that fly
And so many come my way
**** all the goo in my hands
I think that I would understand
If the boss man could not stand
My act for another day

What in God’s name
has this sorry world done?
When the looks of such misery
are on faces so young
When the agents of darkness
walk around in the sun
When no one will say it
but the evil has won
What has the world come to?
What has it done?

Back in the days
of puppies and kittens
When my pages were full
Of stories unwritten
I’d begin each day
with my very best friend
chasing the sun
until the day’s end
But, as time wears on
and I get older
As I slow down
and the wind grows colder
I always remember
What I had been told
“You’re a short time young
and a long time old”

Music is a language
spoken by so few
yet, inspires so many
To be not deaf
and not hear it
would be a cruel twist
of irony

Acts of kindness
and generosity
are often cloaked
in anonymity

**** those dreadful wounds
for which there are nary enough
long cries
and sleepless nights to ease
May we never be cut so deep
as to bleed such unjust tears of sadness

It’s cold and it’s daybreak
and he’s in his chair again
Alone on an empty porch
No thought to where he’s been
He begins this drunken pantomime
with a violin and bow
singing this haunting melody
feeling mighty low

“Why did she leave me?”
“Whatever did I do?”

But, he knows all too well
his story's a bit untrue
She did not abandon him
because she never was
“Better to have loved and lost
than to do what a loser does"
As the sun completes it’s rise
he decides to go to bed
“Folks, I’m here all **** week”
Then bangs the door into his head

I stand in a field
of cold stillness
Amidst it’s golden strands
I raise my arms
to hold the sun’s face
so warmly in my hands

One lonely cornstalk
in a dying field
surrounded by casualties
but, this one will not yield

The sun that was so good to them
had turned into a foe
the draught had taken most of them
but, this one will not go

One stubborn stalk of corn
standing all alone
" you live on
when all are gone”
the farmer sadly moaned

‘Neath my head
I’m apt to keep
A feathered pillow
So that I may sleep

I rid my eyes
The last of sight
So true my mind
May know the night

I close my ears
To all the sound
And hear the bliss
Of silence found

As restful night
Wakes to the morn
A fresh new day
To me is born

The serenity of wheat
sways in the sun so sweet
I walk in peace
on the golden fleece
that bends beneath my feet
I stand next to a tree
and as far as I can see
this kiss of gold
‘spite what I’m told
is exclusively for me

I want to go….
Where I can render harmless
The aftershocks of a quaking world

Where I can sweat in warm night air
Filled with a late summer’s peace
Ride on mattresses made of puffy white clouds
That slowly float past a bright harvest moon

Where I can pleasantly reel in the past
Smile at the younger version of myself
and forgive

Color my mood
A melancholy blue
The bill for it’s absence
Is now again due
May the power of its pain
Produce enough rain
To wash me so cleanly
Of it’s signature hue

As we awaken
and rise for the day
we prepare to go
our separate ways
This morning I feel
the need to say
you are my dearest
and I’ll miss you today

Wake up
in the cold rain
of a dark alley
to feel the desperate
nature of existence

Silent is the stillness
that has long remained undisturbed
To listen to it
is to know the unease
of it’s quiet foreboding

To lighten the load
of too solemn a day
blow kisses with laughter
to chase it away
And if the blues
don’t want to stay
then it ain’t no more
than heaven

Don’t let the traces of
snow on the ground
and the air still yet cold
blind you
to the clouds of March
so thinly painted high in the sky
as to remind us of a Spring yet to come

Again
he dreamt of Anna
at the back of a line
in the wind and the cold
In her hand
A bandana
begging for food
that could not be sold

They hid in the woods
by a roadway
all huddled together
on that cold winter's day
Nothing but silence
wedged between them
until they came
to chase them away

There's been nothing
but years of searching
ever since that awful day
and no matter
how often he asks her
his beloved sister
has nothing to say

I heard the songs of sirens
Sweetly humming through the night
Their naked silhouettes appeared
Beneath the grey moonlight
They knew that I was watching
But, was allowed my stay
To gaze upon these wonders
Who so freely danced and played
Precious nymphs of Nature
In worship of the sky
I fear it but a surreal dream
Adrift a field of rye

A thought
for a bleak and dreary day
When darkness comes
and wants to play
A glimpse of people
hand in hand
Linking smiles
across the land
A string of lights
wrapped around the world

Like a Christmas tree

Every second
of every minute
of every hour saved
is then sacrificed
to the gods of technology
It is an evolution of sorts
where people are beginning
to merge with machines
Humans of an earlier time
will eventually become known as “the ancient ones”
and will stand on rungs closer
to the Neanderthal than to cyborgs

Walking through a field
lush with wildflowers
Making my way
towards a warm setting sun
A vision of death
or a flight of fantasy
Only time
will tell which one

Tomorrows
always come and go
But, the thought of them
Sometimes, scare me so
They can rock my world
even though
they always melt into
harmless yesterdays

One day I rose
from where I was sitting
to embrace the world's love
as if it befitting
then fast lowered myself
at the lack of humility
and shuddered for days
at the responsibility

He looked upon
These shells of men
Upon the cobblestone
Again
It sadly touched
His heart to know
This colleague had no
Place to go
And took such comfort
From a flask
There was no notice
Of what was asked
“**** the poison
Inside thy head!
Be thee alive?
Or be thee dead?”

Gently the morning light
meets my sleepy eyes
It softly taps my shoulder
Like a mother’s plea to rise
The world it seems to be rather harsh
for it’s always asking when
I’ll get up to earn my way
back to bed again

Dreams are to escape
The laws of physics
They’re the playgrounds of analysts, psychics, and mystics
Ethereal visions of a make- believe earth
But in the end
We’re unsure of their worth