"when everything is washed out like faded jeans"

i thought i could stay alive
but there were shadows on my bones,
summer fell through my lips
and washed the colours from my shirt.
i became a lizard in the
dry heat.

the sky layered greys into
clouds, told me how
expressive it could be
and then turned white.
i wasn't going to argue
but i liked it better blue!

when your heart is
full of softness it gathers
the flowers of dusk.

the sea is so far from me
now, how can i remember
a wave or the bluster of
the wind?
i am as forgetful of
shape as foam, i am
as broken as driftwood,
i am the memory of
something that never was,
an impromptu impressionist
painting in ink.

the nun had told the boy,

"say a thousand hail Mary's
and God will grant you
anything you want."

the boy in the front row pew at church, alone
always alone. he didn't want

a ten speed bike or a sunny day,
the Mets to win the world series or

to be president of this sorry country, to be rich

or not to have to clean his room

with the heart of a lonely kid
he felt destiny within himself
so he went for the gamble and spread his cards
leave it to faith
take the road

and he walked into soft light
and disappearing shadows.

"where love is a song settling in the night"

you were the softness of feathers
and the harsh cadence of grief,
you were the sky’s frail mists
and its glittering pools.
in the warm indigos of summer
i welcomed you home,
the sea with its engine pistons
played loud harmonics,
it wasn't the noise but quiet
i wanted most, the way i wanted you,
star silent, drifting like a boat.

sweet bird of budding april's pretty wing,
sat in the willow where the catkins grow,

enchanting like the river's winding flow,
small chatterbox that always loves to sing,

the blossoms kiss the sky whose wandering
finds vast crusades where fleeting warriors go,

true to their loves e'en in the bleakest snow,
or some princess who finds a sapphire ring.

enchanted lands, the bird sings in the tree,
so long forgotten once found near and far,
where streams wind yonder where the bluebirds play,

on honey branches by the windswept sea,
as if they whispered underneath a star
of princely gold the beauty of the day.

clouds of pink on the cherry sigh,
sweet, whispering flowers fall and fall,

they lie upon the mossy wall,
clouds falling from a pink-sea sky,


flowers of the wind, confetti, rice,
papery stream like a pressed dry rose,

blossom song, the tireless breezes blow,
bewitching bower of cherry-flower ice.


a stream of melancholy green,
dances through the shades of the trees

the pink blooms sweep the river's breeze,
dry on stones, cherry-petal scenes....

none of the head angels liked looking
after the flowers. there was never enough
water in heaven for them.

then ian dream remembered:

go under the meadow
over the wave

you will arrive at station 4
press the blue button
and the flowers will automatically
be watered.

tea the angel rushed to try it out.
he pressed the blue button
and the springs for the flowers flowed.

the flowers in heaven started singing
with happiness and it was so beautiful
everyone cried.

the river overflows down to the sea,      
a wintry song to tame the reveled night,
and born of love the stars blaze ever bright,
with soft-ringed beams that sigh like poetry.
dark woven hour, how you inspire me,
the midnight gleams with pools of paean light,
the drowsy moon is shining filmy-white,
the woodlands shrink and dream of sanctuary.
arise on arching wings, oh, song once sung,  
oh, water sprite, oh, lily of the vale,
you pine for love, the forest weaves a spell,
unearthly voice of honey throat and tongue
  i hear you whisper, sing your wild, wild tale,      
  then bid the world goodbye and sweet farewell.