an early
moon made
falls shine  
and being
a kind
of archer
where he
was taught
with ingenuity
that ritual
his prowess
in hunting
would tell
arrows here
in forrest
succumbed to
their inclusion

A poem
even the most oblique
is drawn from some fibre
of the writer
in time, place and space
for inseparable they are

he can't hide
from the truth
as words are his servants
he is the master
and life-giver
or
no thought
would have been
what it is
as presented
to the reader
or listener

a poem
is the alter ego
of the poet--
the quintessential creator.

Does youth
more tears shed
than old age?
I scarcely know
whatever
life is much sorrow

should things be such
from where should we
knowledge borrow?

yet tears
of both ages
are not the same
( distanced by years)
as they in their own way
silently and painfully flow

and what they signify
is from their own hearts drawn
youth is the folly of experience
old age is contemplation without blame
the season that makes wisdom grow

in this the winter-depth
of my fast slipping-away days
tears have become weary
no longer are they keen
their past stories to tell
they have so little now to say
I am quiet , tranquil and at peace
oblivious to what would follow
upon the morrow.

i see nothing in myself
but empty eyes
and a broken shell
so when you say you love me
i think impossible
there's just no way in hell