October,
with its misty
morns --
wakes one day
to the hunter's horn.
Full splendor of the
Autumn leaves,
red and gold
the day receives.
Foxes scramble
upon the hills,
and southbound
songbirds: their
farewell trill.
Bee and beetle:
their work
is done;
flowers fade
beneath the amber  
   sun.
All hail the
turning season now --
the farmer's put away
   his plow.
Rejoice! The pumpkins
   in the fields --amidst
the scarecrows as they kneel.

Oh, gentle shade
   of lovely tree --
songbirds trill a
   symphony.
Long shadows
punctuate the days--
the beetles work is done.
The last sweet nector
for honey-bee;
we're sheltered now
   upon the lee.
Just wait: the smokey fires
   will burn,
and the leaves will
   fall...
for sweet Autumn,
   all too soon,
will come.

When you're walking through
a dark,dark wood
there is nothing for you to fear.
Look at the beauty of
     the trees,
and maybe see a deer.

Before you know it
the path will end;
bright sunlight will
   beckon you.
See the shadows disappear --
be full of hope and life
   anew.

First the sun,
then rustling in the leaves.
Summer comes quietly.

The night draws out --
as if still yearning to linger...
but a star will burst forth
and morning will quickly break.
We linger in dawn-dim rooms,
silently contemplating our fate...
Our lives seem so minute,
so limited compared to the
   ever-lasting cosmos.
We seem staid -- and yet,
our hearts are not that way.
We need merely to step out upon
   the great expanse --
need only take that first step,
and the eternal essence
will receive us.

March 26th my beloved and beautiful sister passed away.
Her son found her in her bedroom in the morning;
the medics couldn't revive her and said her heart had collapsed.
My nephew and I are in a daze, the loss seems unbearable. She was a
very talented poet. Please go to her poems on hp and celebrate her
writing. She is listed under: Kathleen Myra Colby. I will always love
and miss her.
Adelaide Caron Dyson. (04/10/12)

I looked up
from my book
and saw a
   spider
crawl into the
heating vent.
It made me think
of the big, black
   spider
at the kitchen window
last summer.
It eventually died,
they all do,
except the flies...

I shot two
   arrows
into the air --
whither goeth?
One pierced the
   azure sky --
billowy clouds
floating by.
Daisies danced
upon the hill --
swallows dipped
   and spun.
The other pierced
the blood-red rose,
the wound dripped
upon your hand.
Your crimson lips
kissed the wound.
In that moment
tears became real
   as day --
you wept without
   a sound,
you wept for the
blood-red rose.

Christina plays
the glass-bead
   game,
while sitting
in her room.
I love Christina
with her golden
   hair
and Florentine
   balloon.

We are the cities,
old and new alike.
We are the buildings:
skyscraper or condemned.
We are the windows,
glinting in the sun --
broken and *****.
We are the streets,
   intersecting,
some winding down
to the water's edge.

We are the civilizations
ancient or teeming --
shining on golden plains,
or laying in decay.
Edifices rising
and temples fallen.
We are the gods of the mighty
and the lowly.
We are the triumphs,
we are the tragedies.

We are the cities...

From the first breath
the scent of the woods
enveloped me --
the musky air filled me,
reminding me of days
   now passed.
Was that your face I saw
half-hidden in the silent
shadows of the trees?
No, I walked alone
beneath the fragrant canopy
of hemlock, fir...
   and of pine.
There was the sweet scent
of wild things:
untended flowers, downy moss,
and all around me
every bough,  every branch
reached out...entwining
in Nature's safe embrace.
Fallen leaves
victims beneath my feet --
stirring up that heady odor
born of our season's decay.
The past, like sunlight,
filtered through the trees;
memories (like love)
surrounded me --
   arousing me.
I slowly closed my eyes
   (breathing deep),
and I remembered
the smell of your skin.

Deer are walking
among the trees.
Hoof prints in the
   snow
tell of a restless
   night.
The god of the unseen,
   the unheard,
passed by here
in the night...
Startled, the deer
felt his presence
in the dark --
in the silence,
in the snow.

Time hangs
heavy
in the garden
of the exiles.

Silence...

I don't know if it
was a hallucination...
you were here
in this room,
your hand caressing
   my face...
then your hand opening
  the door
and you leaving.

I still don't know...

Snow falls
like the first snow,
   silently.
The air is close.
A stand of
skeleton trees --
brances adorned
with white.
A snowflake
   touches
my cheek:
cold kisses from
a cold Romance.
Snow falls...

And now the sacred  
season comes;
pine boughs hang
   heavy
with the snow.
Holly brightens
the winter scene
and mistletoe hints
at a more ancient
   celebration.
Candles light the
frosty windows --
weary travelers
hurry home.
On this most holy
    night
a babe was born
(witnessed by a
   star) --
bearing the angel's
  adoration.
Lo, the baby is
   sleeping;
Alleluia, the angels
are singing.
Peace on earth,
peace on earth!
And now the sacred
season comes...

In the thicket
is the sparrow,
darting here,
darting there,
all today
and tomorrow.
In the thicket
where wild roses
once bloomed
so brightly,
little sparrow
know this well.

The way the sun
is coming up over the city
is big and yellow
   and vapid.
The city shimmers;
streets of diamond-dust.
(Wings flutter,
   angel wings).
Glass pyramids
glisten on the back
of the sleeping serpent
that sprawls along
the water's edge.

Cities shrug
by safe harbors
   or not;
laundry hanging
on a line --
each moment
caught in time
by pen in hand.
Beauty flirtatious,
glances at the beast --
yet, there is
the uncommon beauty
languidly battling
the ardent pursuer;
(tangerine lips),
a bed of blossoms.
There is the invisible
   woman
shallow  beyond
   the bone.
This, too, caught
by pen in hand.

At once, political
   fanfare --
who's running the world
   and why?
Revolution's heroes
and the first small step,
later enduring
and correct.
A dear friend, from
childhood, seen,
'Ti-jean with his
plaid shirt and
   merere.
This all caught
by pen in hand.

The two old loves
yearning for green
   meadows,
lie down by weeds
   and tracks
as if in graves.
But, why not stave off
the hands of fate?
Love lingers long
if it is true.
And last of all, yes,
perhaps happier than
   the rest,
a little woman --
tame bird in hand:
no truer friend.
This, too, caught by
pen in hand.

Sitting in the kitchen
eating oranges,
the moon so bright
the garden is made
   of shadows.
Cat rubs against
my leg, as if
to say "Go to bed,
put the day away."
I think about life's
twists and turns --
perhaps that is the mystery.
The goddess shines
   bright, eternally --
just beyond the open
   door.
Crickets sleep
bathed in silver and quiet now.
Cat slowly slides
across the kitchen floor.
How can I have gotten
   this far?
Weathered all
the twists and turns --
that mystery so slow
   to unravel.
A feline stretch high
upon the screen-door.
Cat wants to climb
   to the moon.

A lonely god
sits and waits
for dust
to rise like
   smoke.
A weaver threads
his loom of life
with spun gold:
a glorious
   display --
a sower strews
his seeds by hand;
mother earth lets them
   take root.
The phoenix rises
from the ash,
   all aflame
and feathers red.
And still the
lonely god does wait
for breath to take
and keep him
   company.

Maggots do their work
   so well --
erasing flesh
   and features.
To look upon these
   white, parched bones,
one could never know
how beautiful --
   how divine --
this creature was.
How she walked
under starry skies,
and danced to
   midsummer,
all entranced.
How in spring she
gathered bouquets of
   dogwood --
an orange poppy
behind her ear.
And in winter,
   oh winter,
how this beauty
hid amongst the
   skeleton trees,
with snow all 'round
and dainty hands
in woolen gloves.
But it was in autumn
I loved her best.
The tawny hues
highlighting her
chestnut hair.  
Running through the
   fallen leaves,
and laughing because
she loved life so very much.
Standing beneath
the crimson trees
in a gold-velvet gown,
her eyes sparkling
and the deepest brown.

Maggots do their work
   so well --
erasing flesh
   and features.
To look upon these
white, scoured bones
one would never know
how divine --
   how beautiful --
this creature was.

To this thought sparked
and to this wonder --
where did I come
   from,
and what was the
   plan?
To what rhyme,
to what reason?

An astral plane
vast beyond belief --
   or perhaps:
a grain of sand,
speckled upon a beach.

Which form or feature --
what destination?
(The beginning beguiles
   the ending.)

To this moment granted,
and to this wonder --
where did I come
   from,
and what was the plan?

I longed to die --
   to simply cease --
he showed no mercy
with savage restraint.
He talked of never being
   forgiven...
all sanity gone --
time hangs heavy
in the hidden places
of the exiles,
in the cold, morbid
relentlessness of an
unforgiving night.

Sitting, looking out
this tower's windows,
across the bay
at the city skyline.
A beautiful city.
The fog slipping
onto the island's
   tideflats.
It seems eerie --
with buildings
and industrial lights
playing hide and seek.
The bridge engulfed
by a silver, cerebral
   sea--
and the cold fog
rolling, rolling down
and back upon
   itself,
as if a stream
   of vapors
flows along the
roadways of time
   and space,
flooding the gutters
with lost loves,
   faded dreams.
the last reflections
of that secret realm
which only the eternal
fog can hide --
along with street-grided
mysteries of the city,
and the heart-of-hearts
which beats in building
    and bridge.
Street upon street
winding down
with a certain purpose,
to finally end upon
   the water's edge
where an ancient
   stairway
descends into the bay.

Summer days,
summer days --
trees offer their
   gentle canopy;
roses, full-blown
scent the air.
Lizards bask --
the humble bees
visits flower after
   flower,
their hum enveloping
on a warm afternoon.
Beetles scurry
hurriedly working
their naturnal jobs.
A ****-robin
sits upon the birdbath,
and barn swallows
dip and turn
on sky-borne currents.
An orange cat
naps in the cool
   shade
beneath the mulberry
   tree --
while butterflies
   linger
by the garden gate.
Summer days,
summer days:
this season reigns
so beautifully.

Deep within me
there is a void,
blacker-than-black
   and cavernous.
I have known this
since childhood.
The void is there,
and an emptiness
   so final
that I want to weep.
In that dark, deep
   place
my soul of soul resides ,
and it is enveloping --
this void within me:
it calls to me
in terrors of the night.
It whispers to me on sunlit
   afternoons,
when I think I am
   at peace.
I shudder, and the
skin of my eyes
   peels away.
Deep within me
there is a void,
black, so black --
and cavernous.

In golden rooms,
that faintly smell of
   hyacinths,
they sit and stare
at faceless forms,
reading poetry
long forgotten
   by man,
and handle rare
   gems
as though they
were mere stones.

I have seen such suffering,
I have lived such sorrow,
raining down like ash
to smother tiny voices
and small bird wings.
I ask why, but the answer
is never clear --
revelation is not my
   epiphany.
How can this happen?
Why does this happen?
Such pain --excruciating
   in exactness --
unrelenting in its
unwanted gifts.
I have seen such suffering,
I have lived such sorrow,
   raining down...

In the shadows
grows the nightshade,
I know this well,
for we wondered there.
He laughed outloud
and promised love --
a promise I held fast.
I begged him once
to be in good faith,
and yet he strayed.

In the shadows
I plucked the blossoms,
bitter handfuls,
for my witch's brew,
made so sweet with wine.
He laughed outloud
and drank it down.
I watched and waited,
and smiled at last...

In the shadows
grows the nightshade --
there,too, my lost
   love lies:
lips so cold, and
   vacant eyed.
True to me at last.

Blow by blow
you were the best,
old enemy of mine.
Lightening crashed.
mountains turned to
   dust --
we thundered across
   vast plains.
Armor battered,
sword and hammer
   frought,
and still you fought.
The Gods had
their way with us,
   you know --
calling for that
more than mortal
   combat.
Blow by blow
you were the best,
old enemy of mine.

See-through houses,
   abandoned,
on the high plains.
Lonely vestiges
of failed dreams...
Roses gone wild,
and in the Spring daffodils
to say "We lived here
   once."
The hardships
were too much.
Mule and plow
   and man
could not fight
the droughts.

The vast plain
stretches out;
now ramshackle
   homesteads
weather the ravages
of time --
but the land will win.
Dreams gone. Farmers
   gone...
just a blackbird
in a lone tree,
and daisies.

Days pass,
days pass --
shadows tread
the night.
Hearts break;
glass shatters
   from above.
Grey eyes
blink back
the tears in vain.
And the world
comes slowly
to an end.

Night will never
   betray
our primal lust
for pursuing pain.
That age old
demon
reaches out,
   beckoning
with scaley hands;
whose eyes
have seen the darkest
   sin...
Who are we
but children of
suffering, of the
   night,
of death...

The creamy rose meets the
morn, yet sadness rests upon
the dew-dropped blooms. All
the years in an instant robbed;
my bouquet cascades to the
ground. Tears blinked back.
You are lost, and love is gone --
the trembling leaves have
blown away.

We stood beneath
   the bridge,
seeking shadows
to hide our faces.
He tried to smile,
but the look
was distorted and
   displaced.
No sanity left...
no humanity.
The path chosen
led us deep
   and dark
into a realm
with pleading
   voices,
with merciless
   reactions.
The day would come
when it must stop.
Where? When?
The true gods
turned away
and left us, childlike,
to face our fortune.
Left us unguarded
to witness the
unremorseful grasp
   of fate.
We stood alone,
even the shadows
could not hide us
   then...

And yet the night,
in twisted form,
offered refuge
for sadistic hands.
Breath, not even cold,
did not escape
from vacant lungs.
But the fear
never left the eyes.
Mortal agony
traced lines upon
   the face.
Somewhere a sun
shone bright
in a guiltless realm.
But this world
was dark, then dim,
never breaking dawn.
Rituals replayed
   rules;
death replaced
the once beating heart.
How strange
the scene played
   out.
But strangers
had become a
   way of life --
and strangers
offered up such
mortal sacrifice.
How could they
have known
that darkness waited?
Impenetrable and
   unforgiving.

In dawn's dim
   light
we retraced our steps
through that
dark forest --
   our fortress,
littered with malice's
shallow graves.
The day's beginning
saw the aftermath
of crimes of
soulless passion.
I looked at him:
those hollow eyes,
what did they see?
What is seen
is what is known.
The trees did not
   cast shadows,
but stood with
solemn grace,
witnesses to brutality
of senseless order.
There were no
   questions now,
no need of answers,
there was only us.
He looked at me --
I saw a bleak horizon
in his face.
I saw the world
begin and end...
Cold and heartless;
no semblance of morality.

A distant light
flickered with the brittleness
  of life,
once seen, then gone,
then seen again.
The very air seemed callous
of its treatment
   of this wan, pathetic beacon
   in the void.
We felt no humanity now --
all traces scorned as weakness,
cast off as useless weight.
There was nothing but us,
and the vacuum of our souls.
No common ground
to share with any other thing --
we had gone beyond (at first by accident,
but then and then again by choice) --
we destroyed eveything
we might have turned back upon,
becoming "more than",
instead of "once was".
Our sanity cast off
with society's rules --
a tragic dream of a different
   mother's brood.
Death meant nothing,
for we drank blood
from a different golden chalice,
and cleaned our wounds
with someone else's salty tears.

Callous handling
of a life's brief
   moments --
to say that we
could extinguish
the light in
frightened eyes.
To say that
we had become
   gods
in our own right,
with the unnatural
   rights
of vengeful dieties.
How did we come
   to this?
To take lives
from the natural
order of things.
We reigned supreme
in a world hidden
beyond tangled branches
of a very dark forest ...
the blackest place
within our souls.
No light -- sweet light --
to penetrate the
cold, blank night.
The victim's odd,
   blank stare.
Gods we were
exacting painful
   penance,
craving delirium's
   devotion,
craving death...

Bridges burned,
no turning back.
The night --
our sanctuary --
claimed its toll.
Sense or senseless?
The choice was
   ours --
risks were weighed
on whatever scale
our conscience
   held;
and so too was weighed
the value of our sin...
Rain fell hard
against a scene
black as our souls --
a lonely light
glowed: ghostly
   as our fate.
Whispers sealed
our pact in hell.
What we did
would bind us tight --
no guilt...and no
   redemption.

"In the days of the monkeys,
I ate their brains,"
he turned to me and laughed,
that hollow sound
which could never fill our void,
nor turn back time --
not even erase the mockeries
we made of feigned virtue,
   faded glory --
devout adornment of the false gods
   of fate.
No murderer can lay claim
to a moniker graced with deity,
laced with the untruths
   of the human soul,
(a condition born of
pre-ordained expediency).
The human condition
creates a killer --
defines the scope of ******,
   of murderer.

I looked at him --
my voice distant and low,
"In the days of the monkeys,
we may not have been
   the same."

I am a prisoner
of another's need
to make the world
feel small...
and hollow.
A sacrifice
to someone else's
fears and foibles;
an unholy law
now forced upon
   this weary brow...
I suffer for crimes
   not committed,
for sins never dared.
There is no hope
   of rescue --
there is no helping
   hand.
(Where is my defense?
My redemption?)
No one cares
as long as no
payment is required
   or requested--
only my soul demanded!
Prisoner? Sacrifice?
No difference, no
   matter now...
I have been thrown
   to the wolves,
without remorse,
without conscience,
without a second thought.

February sunrise:
orange fading to yellow,
then even paler yellow.
Skeleton trees
silhouetted against
    the sky.
The colored light
reflected in windows.
A streak of grey.
The stillness is
   enveloping:
no sound, no one.
The sky grows lighter --
telephone poles stand
   guard.
Houses still slumber
this February morn.

An endless, coarse rain --
   here, now --
yet, another time,
   another place,
the sun reigned upon
our world...
it was brief and it was
   brittle --
we did not know...
did not choose to think
beyond what was then
our "here and now":
no rules, ro rhyme,
   nor reason.
We thought we would
never end --
   or did we really
   think?
We believed the dream
we dreamed;
our web painstakingly
   spun.
Dew drops shone
on slender threads,
like diamond-fire...
yet, as the dew fades
   past dawn,
our world vanished
before our eyes --
slipping through
our finghertips --
lost beyond our grasp.
And so, this day --
   here, now --
we settle for the rain
to wash away the grief,
wash away the sin --
   (no promises made) --
to quickly, mercifully
wash  our memories away.

We must dare
to dream
extravagant;
to celebrate
   the unique.
Each day is our
   opportunity --
each choice
our special
   gift.

Birds, as black and shiny
as the sins of night.
Their cries:
chilling memories of
   blank promises.
The bleak horizon
offered nothing --
yet nothingness
   belonged to us...
and too those birds,
and too those sins.
Night became us
   then...

Daylight, long since
   shunned --
the night becomes
our world.
Pale lovers share
their salty kisses:
   each embrace
assaults the void.
Knives flash,
then are hidden --
lives are spared
down the dim alleys
   of 'Never-End',
where (once treaspassed)
we now dare to walk.
Tired mysteries stir --
awaking to secrets
   shared,
and sometimes kept;
to sinful debts
that must be paid.
Sleepless shadows
****** and sway
   demanding courage...
   (testing faith?).
But, we know too well
the dark to be
our only friend.
Sweating out its passion,
craving pleasure's pain...
swearing oathes
   in whispers;
breathing vengence
to be made.
Empty hours:
   filled with careful
   dreams...
Empty hearts:
careless choices
   breaking all.
The sad mercy
of a moment's rest
comes at break-neck
   speed.
Gutters fill with
lust and blood --
minds are eased;
memories erased.
No promises need
   cross our lips,
only those sweet lies
best told in the warm
   darkness
of our endless night.

The bees cried --
(having witnessed the reptilian law) --
they knew their own purpose was to be
   a mortal sting: of flesh, of blood,
    of soul...
Their vision: an amber tear of death,
of pain, of the blackest love...
And the shimmering serpents --
    once there, now here, yet there again --
observed the bees, with scaled eyes,
    and yawned...
they were the ancient gods,
still holding fast to their slithering
    sequined power --
bound to earth, they watched the bees...
and forgave their winged messengers.

Night terrors
conjure shapes
   and forms
far from here...
distant demons
   wake --
they yawn and
   stretch,
their fingertips
touching soul
   and sky.
No fear is felt
because it is not
   known.
Caution falls aside --
showing mercy
is unimportant,
it is a burden...
   antique and
   unproductive.
(There are no tricks
   to fate.)
The world is dark --
each breath
(each whisper)
hangs upon the day
so late in coming.
The demons dance
   and smile --
familiar with the
   nightmare.
(Another time,
another place...)
Magician teach us
careful magic
learned far off --
where hope lies down with
   death.