Hands which tremble
hold my own--
a grasp few
   have felt.
The outcast heart...
How we laugh
   and glide;
how we linger,
yet never die.
No prayer will save.
Hollow eyes/
   vacant smiles.
Patterned madness;
frightening safety.
Devils: shared,
   never alone.
The nightmare
at once repulsive,
then compelling...
Hand in hand we go --
spiralling downward.
A world of walls;
a paradise of pain.

Cold morning
meets dark, weary eyes --
the damp, grey air
seeps reality into
   the soul...
Endless days (and nights)
make up our all too
   brief lives --
we spend what we
   do not have...
moment upon moment,
hour after hour.
The truth is known:
kinship accepted --
no lie to this game
we're driven to play.
Yet, somehow
the world around us
cannot accept what we are.
Candles burn bright
and fast, with
relentless ease...
(angelic visions/
demonic grace).
And cast a glow,
calm and soft,
to stifle fear
for our never-closing
   eyes.

Snow fell like angel
   whispers.
The night glowed
   white
with the purity of
innocence.
No movement,
no sound --
save for the snow
and its gentility.

The call comes
shrill at first,
scattering the brittle
   light --
then notes follow:
a sad, reminiscent
   melody.
Bird, why have you
   stayed?
Why have you stayed?
Winter wraps the air
   so close,
and cold.
Pine trees and fir
the only sentinels
to guard against
   storm and night.
Bird, why have you
   stayed?
Sharp wings cut
through snowfall:
the sky is full
   of white!
What do you remember --
what do you remember here?
Bird, why have you stayed...

Knives twist
   and turn --
in someone else's
nightmare,
lost in lust
and vain deception --
it is not our dream,
   our wilderness,
of love and darkness...
They will die,
   --dust to dust --
and never know
we held eternity
in our bare hands.

Winter's brittle beauty
   comes
in a snow-fall,
whiter-than-white.
Adorning skeleton
   trees;
wrapping this place
in a crystal comforter.
The air is still --
a quiet envelopes
this wonderland...
no bird to sing.
Winter's brittle beauty
   comes.
the air casts blue
in the frozen twilight.
The hearth is warm,
the home snow-bound,
yet magic reigns.
Winter's brittle beauty
   comes...

Magpies in the
     cemetary;
I sit and remember
beneath the pines.
How cold the world
     seems at times.
You were always
     there.
Magpies in the cemetary --
the dogwood branches bare,
skeleton trees shrouded
by winter's chill.
I sit and remember.
Mother, father...
I miss you so.

A wolf is resting
in the woods --
fires are burning.
Man dispelling
encroaching spirits.
Snow begins to fall --
skeleton trees
stand bold against
the enclosing air.
Ancient fear lingers:
half-hidden,
     half- realized.
Man huddles
by the fire --
rituals, learned
   long ago,
with careful hands
are performed.
(Snow is falling
all around.)
A wolf is resting
in the woods --
fires ae burning.
Man...

it is the days
we do not speak of
that turn our lives.
it is the cold
which makes us yearn
for houses made of woolen.
we are caught
in the endless bric-a-brac,
the absurdity of it all.
we are the children of
men-in-winter,
mad sailors
and silent snow.

A ****** of crows --
the branches bare.
Time at the edge
   of the field
stands still.
Snow descended
   in the night:
a pure, white
caress of the land.
The crows tuck
their wings in tight--
eyeing  what could
be seen as desolation.

The field is empty
save the crows.
Time, time...
it had to happen.
Time, time:
it does not matter.
The field is still,
the crows are still.
Time: forgotten now.

The air is close,
it looks like snow --
too soon, too soon,
the Season isn't
   ready yet?
The last leaf
has not fallen.
The last rose
has not blown away.
'Too soon, too soon',
the little bird cries,
as the air casts blue
and twilight hints of snow.
When was winter
so far away?
Do we remember
those lazy days?
And now, the sky
threatens
with a brittle beauty...

If  I wake to snow,
I will not be surprised,
I'll just sigh
and say, 'too soon.'

There are many
     blessing
in a quiet life,
   you know.
A peaceful walk
with the dogs;
a book to wile
away the hours.
I think of May
and all the flowers.
A stroll downtown,
recalling memories
from long ago.
A nod, a smile
to passerby's --
then back home
to my little realm,
warm and safe...
A cup of tea.
There are many
   blessings
in a quiet life,
   you know.

Leaves upon the  
   ground --
the sky steel gray.
The last roses
wet with rain,
yet that does not
belie their summer
   beauty.
November's chill
   creeps in,
with the air full
of autumn's decay.
The year past
is not lost to the
   day.
Soon winter's
brittle beauty comes,
but for now
November reigns:
a hint of skeleton trees
   to come...
and those last roses
will have blown away.

Ancient mysteries
beg to be revealed,
but solemn vows
delay the revelation.
Down darkened
   hallyways
silence reigns;
initiates tremble
foreseeing the pain
   to come.
Candles glow in
   hidden chambers --
hoods hide faces
rapt with secrecy.
And now, a solitary bell
sounds out the hour, as if
confirming what should
and should not be told.
A stone. A gem.
And burnished golden pieces.
A chalis to drink in
the waiting words.
Ancient mysteries --
sacred transfirgurations --
need new blood
to withstand time
   and eternity.

Old soldiers
never die, they say --
but young ones do.
Wars rage on --
Man following
some ancient instinct.
Fight or flight,
and we won't be
the ones who turn tail
   and run.
Combat quickens
a Nation's soul.
The years pass,
the years pass....
Old soldiers
never die, they say --
but young ones do,
but young ones do.

The night rained on,
memories overcame
the night.
Heavy sighs
waited to be heard,
deep in the shadows.
Voices, nearly recognized,
filtered in and out
of the dark, slick leaves...
'Time before' flooded this realm --
hearts broken, mended,
then destroyed...
carried the memories
of love, love lost,
and never found..
A streetlamp's aura
displayed what
   was known;
glistening ghosts lingered,
beckoning through
the endless hours --
and I remembered
the touch of
   your hand.

The firelight casts
   an amber glow --
reflecting this amber season.
Acorn garlands hang
   with ease;
bowls of walnuts
waiting to be shelled.
Pumpkins brighten nooks--
vases filled with
   silver maple
dispel any gloomy nitch.
Apples wait to be baked
and pomegrantes
are a perfect display.
Dogs sleep by the
   hearth,
dreaming dog-dreams
of running through
   the fallen leaves --
while I make a wreath
of last summer's blooms
   gone to seed
and bittersweet vines,
their vibrant berries
   aglow.
Through the window
I gaze at the Autumn sunset:
tawny gold, pink-tinged peach
and pale blue-grey.
The air outside is chilled
a hint of Winter's cold
   to come.
But hearth and home
    are warm,
embracing this season's gentility.

My Autumn is so bittersweet.
The bee will rest soon;
songbirds fly south.

The beetle's work is done.

Thistle blooms have gone to seed
     and butterflies
have left the milkweed behind.

I stand among the costumed trees
and celebrate their colors,
   counting time.

The year is coming to a close:
Nature's cycle nears completion.

How sweetly sad for the
   days to pass...
summer's exuberance gave way;
winter's sleep is not far off.

Autumn's paintbrush
will begin to fade --
the bee will rest soon,
the songbirds fly south.

We heard the hum
of the flies first
on this deathscape,
this new home of ours.
And then we saw
the corpses of our
     souls.
We were judge
     and jury,
delivering a long,
mean sentence ...
better yet to feel
the executioner's
     gentle touch ...
but kindness was killed --
the ****** we first
     committed.
There is no forgiveness --
mercy was lost
     to the day.
But the flies,
they came first,
finding death with
     uncanny instinct.
No going back now;
no outstretched angel wings...
only the flies,
the incessant hum
     of the flies.

I sit and watch
the season pass --
the swallows
have flown south.
Sparrows huddle
in the trees,
waiting to be fed.
The leaves have
     begun to turn --
acorns litter the ground.
All the colors:
the yellow willow,
the orange maple,
     verging pink.
The browns and
     purples,
surround me now.
The mighty elm,
Autumn's last sentinel,
stands tall, baiting
Winter with its chill.
Soon bare branches,
     skeleton trees,
will haunt the skyline
and pine-cones will fall
with any sudden
     wind.
Soon I'll bundle
against the cold,
trudging through the
     snow,
waiting for daffodils
and Spring's delights.

Silver threads
strain to mend
the rips in time --
a shattered mind,
     pieces scattered,
falls witness
to guilt's campaign.
Voices invade
the natural silence:
discordant,
with mouthless
     screams.
Unnatural lyrics
****** the ears...
Dark figures
menace, just beyond
   clarity,
tricking the eye.
(Fear's morbid
fascination.)
Sight and sound
     betrayed...
The night is long
that has no hope
   for day...
(no escape nor reprieve).
The Rituals of
     madness
must be obeyed.

I so wanted to take you
into the woods that day--
     home--
but the world encroached,
robbing us of chance
     and time.
Still, there  are many woods
to stir our hearts.
I will find you one,
on one of those bright
and blameless days.
One summer morning
when the warm, familiar sun
     floods down,
and our shadows
hide beneath the bridges
     of our souls.
You"ll turn and look
     at me --
and I will feel
the skin of your eyes
     quiver.

Torchlights bloomed,
glowing amber rays
against the silver-studded sky:
beacons watching,
     waiting,
for the silent men
who slowly slide
though sheltering shadows,
toward our nocturnal homeland.
Dew settled:
sheets of diamond-dust
sevenfold upon the
   shimmering sand.
Distant songs (faintly heard),
     tried to fade,
yet lingered on the smokey
     air...
Fires (the First Rituals)
     flickered, flared --
and I remembered
the sound of your voice.

Shadows murmur
across the hills --
voices, faint,
an ancient chorus.
A tired season
slowly enters
sleep's provence.
Sighs linger,
caught ephemeral,
in vapors or
     in dreams.
Secrets, older than
     centuries,
long to be revealed.
Smoke and dusk
     embrace;
old eyes strain --
deaf ears fall
     short
of forgotten lore,
the meaning lost.
Silent footfalls
follow vague
     whispers.
Fires flicker, fade.
This landscape,
     growing dim,
transverses night
and time.

To you I pledge
on this long night,
the promise only we
   can keep.
No other two
can claim to know
what we have learned,
nor feel what we
     have felt.
The others feign their
     loyalty --
say: two hearts
beat as one...
False hope, faint truths,
and faded dignity --
no inkling of the vows
in darkness made,
which only we
     can keep.

I loved him once
so long ago --
the years have passed,
yet memories
do not fade.
A touch, a kiss --
all those moments
caught in time.
Laughter once heard
echoes beyond
   the grave.
And tears
that fell,
   still now
bring pain.
I loved him once
so long ago...
and he loved me.

Oh glorious Autumn,
your beauty surpasses
Spring's delight.
Your blaze of colors
ignites the air,
as leaves fall
like sparks
to carpet the ground
with orange and yellow,
     red and brown.
Oh, glorious Autumn,
I love you best;
your fire
spreads across the
     hills.
Aspen, maple,
     elm and birch
adorned in decadent finery:
one last stand
before Winter's chill.
Oh glorious Autumn,
your beauty
surpasses all the rest.

Shadow men--
the silent,
   secret ones --
stand soulless
by the sea.
Day has vanished
into the grey twilight.
Trees, towering sentinels,
guard against the night.
The strong pursue,
the weak will cry...
dart and turn,
twist and grimace.
(Sight and sound betrayed/
instinct forgotten
or mislaid.)
The shadow men
watch the hunt:
no reaction, nor reward.
Night, like the First
     Darkness,
consumes all --
soul and soulless --
by the sea,
the silent, secret sea.

Night brought
dreams--
shadow spectres
beneath the silver
   moon.
Durvishes danced,
breathless,
to the melancholy music
of the spheres.
Guarded memories
lurked just beyond
   the door.
Murky colors
began to fade
into the creeping
     fog...
points of light --
there, but not there --
illuminated
the mind's  strange
     path...
from twilight to dawn --
to waking hours
when dreams,
   themselves,
sought sleep.

Babies are sleeping
in silver cradles;
cats roam with a
certain aimlessness
that only the night
   can detect.
Mist mingles
with the undulating
     smoke
of dying fires,
with my warm breath
caught in the darkness
     of the air --
languid voices whisper
and I remember
the color of your eyes.

Dawn approached
encroaching on our
   world of night,
that dreamy realm
we claimed as ours
during the dark, spinning
     moments,
when we could neither
speak nor think...
That world of night,
where we dwelt
in our secret place.

Bronze roses
and dried leaves...
love lies adust
in this melancholy place.

Faint rays of light
through broken windows,
disturb the jealous darkness.

Pale figures glide
down gloomy hallways --
faint whisperings are heard.

Broken dreams: faded tapestries
of what was and will
never be again.

Mirrors reflect a sad masque:
what is lost to the day.
Bronze roses
and dried leaves.

Here in this somber place
the air is rare
and full of sighs.

Today I am tired,
I linger languidly,
listening to the wind.
The Autumn leaves
will fall so soon,
a bittersweet beauty.
The season of
   our decay.
The wind in the trees
beckons me,
but I pause and sigh.
Today I am tired,
a dreamer walking through the hours.

A roar
in our ears,
as if the void
     suddenly filled --
a maelstrom
in our minds:
spinning, swirling...
pulling us close
     and down.
Eyes blur;
breath comes quick
     and hard.
We are caught,
     as always
      (forever?),
in the trap
we crave, we love.

Lost love
lies melancholy
in the dust;
dried leaves
hide the tears.
What is remembered
are the words
not spoken;
the broken promises
that broke a heart.
Bronze roses
are cold reminders
of days once
punctuated by shadows
   long --
we shall ne're meet again,
the dust and the leaves
my only companions now.