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.

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.

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.

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...

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.

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.

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.

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.

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...

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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.'

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.

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.

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

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.

Time hangs
heavy
in the garden
of the exiles.

Silence...

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.

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...

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...

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...

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.