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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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...

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.

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.

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.

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.

"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."

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.

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...

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.

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.

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.

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...

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.

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.

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...

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

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.

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)

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...

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.

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.

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.

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.

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...

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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...

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.

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...

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.