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)

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.

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.

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...

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

"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."

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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...

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

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.

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...

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...

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.

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.

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...

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.