One morning fair, in the month of may,
I awoke afresh and laughed,
for it seemed to me that the time
had come, for a grand adventure,
and a merry day.

I ran down the creaking steps,
down the long and welcoming
stair, and when I came to stair-
wells end, I winded stopped to
rest.

But soon I rose and started on,
running on again, and running
now more temperately, I came
to the store apace.

I stocked my pack with bread
and butter, an apple and some
cheese, and as a welcome
afterthought, I added in some
bees.

I ran out the oaken door,
I ran across the lawn,
and entered in the beechen
woods, full flowered in
Kindly spring.

And I ran and sang, and lost
my way, all through that
laughing, gladden day, and
when at last I ventured home,
my parents were justly, quite
distraught.

But I lay in my bed, and smiled
and sang gladly in my heart,
for though to bed without
supper I'd gone, and my belly
was rumbling sore, I'd gone on a
merry, grand adventure,
and I'd had a merry day.

I have lived on this site for many years now, breathing poetry in, breathing poetry out; infusing the wonderful blend of thoughts and ideas, of profundities, comic absurdities, the peace of serenity, achieved in few words, poignant, vast, with my own, my own thoughts, loves, fears, conceptions of beauty, and my reality of what is ugly, and what is not. You know me only as a poet, an identity obscured by intent, lost, one among millions, in the vast web of energy that connects us, empowers us, gives us the tools to do anything, and at the same time, all too often, takes away the will to do anything at all, to emerge from its deep, narrow pool, and observe the endless ocean that is life, that surrounds us, unheeded, we on our little islands, lost in the trap of our own design. I am a poet, one who wishes only to express, and to feel, to influence others, to help them on their way, and be aided in turn, when the world seems darkest, and the temptation of the trap seems sure, the way of quick release. I am a poet, and that is all I am, and all, deep down, that I ever shall be; and I am content. For to be a poet, one who is at the core of his being connected to an other, whether that other be nature, a person, humanity, or even the depths of ones inner self, and the secrets contained therein; or a hundred thousand more, one is connected. And that, whether tragic or joyous, comic, or serene, is the greatest gift one can hold, and although it may be gained in later life, never will those who have gained it thus experience the depth of feeling as those who were at birth endowed with it, that most heavenly of gifts. I am a poet, as are you. Let us make something wonderful, together, and in time, perhaps, we may heal the world of its sorrows, and bring joy, where before there was despair, and light, where once there was darkness.

I walk on, through the
rustling grasses, through
the young corn stalks
greening in the sun; I
walk through the lands
of peace and plenty, of
the harvest, and the
crackling hearth; but I
tarry not in the lands of
men, and walking,
wander on.

I come at last to a stony
stream, laughing in its
bed, in its swift-water
way, and see beyond the
Greenwood fair, full
flowering scented in
the breeze.

Stepping then, through
the sun-bright stream,
heedless of the wet, of
the chill water running,
I cross, and pass from
light to shade, to the
leafing-realm, and the
calls of spring, joyous
borne, on the scented
wind.

And I pass, silent, in that
dawning spring, to lose
myself, and the marked
way; to slip the hold,
to wander free.

These thoughts of mine are
hard to keep, these flitting
things of light and shadow,
of dreams forgotten, and
of the ecstatic delirium of
madness that comes from
a night of sleepless turnings,
stimulants, enticing so,
the bodies of dreams, mine
and not. But who can tell,
among us all, among
us heaped and sprawled
and thronged, who can say
who truly dreamt, the
word that marks, the laugh
that cuts, that worms into
the hollowed space, that
takes the place ones heart
did make, first, before we
dreamt at all?

I wonder, dreaming, lost in the
twist, in the curve of the road,
in the arching endlessness of
times eternity, and we trapped
just a little behind the center,
able to glance before, but not
beyond; I wonder then, when
lost in sleep, what peace may
I find, in living life, what joy
among such twisted lies.
I think of the lily, of the holly
tree, of Christmases, and
laughter free, but ever after
thinking thus, my thoughts
turn always to the empty
dark, to the thorn, to the
adder, to the darker parts.
What joy for me, when cursed
to think, to wander in
places cold and bleak,
led, abandoned, my nature
conflicted, I yearn for the
light, I lust for the dark.
I wonder now, thinking so,
what use there be in striving
so, in knowledge that mine
is a lesser struggle, a paltry
thing, devoid of sorrow;
and yet I feel it, through
and through, I rage at the
dark, I weep at the light,
petulant, true, as a child
grown fat, grown full
in the luxury of an easy
life.

What use, you say?
Why simply this, that
life is short, yet mine new
begun, and though short
it be, yet long mayhap,
I may run in the grass,
and forget my sorrow;
or if, indeed, my life is
marked, my fate be cast
for a darker lot, a shadowed
play, a twisted plot, then
hope there is, if hope it
be, that sorrows
undreamed of may yet
find me, and I may then
in bitter relief, say then
in truth: That though
mine before was an
easy life, a spring devoid
of pain, of strife, that
now at last I have joined
the ranks, of those
who have drunk of
the vinegar of life, and
found it bitter, to the
very dregs.

I stand before the sighing mead,
form full shadowed in the trees;
and watching spy from shadowed
leaves, the spinning dance of
dandelion seeds, spinning lightly
through the trees.

I step out from the gloaming shade,
out; full washed in light fresh made,
falling free from blue-blown sky,
to warm the heart and light the eye.

Grasshoppers fleeing, I watch them
leap, new leaves given wings, to crick,
to sing; to leap and glide, to fall again.
Looking on, through lighted glen, to
watch the leaves shift amongst pillared
trees, I see a flash, a spot of white, a
brown of fur, a gleam of eye.

Swiftly now I leap and run, through
the glen I madly dash, twisting,
turning, running on, not knowing
how, or what I do.

At last, through forest, light and
shade, through grasses tall and
brambles cruel, battered, torn from
headlong flight, I cease my running,
still my stride, panting now, in
dappled light.

The Doe, she stops, and turns mid-
stride, glowing there, at chases end.
Slowly then, in aching grace, she
lowers her hoof to moulded earth,
and moves back silent to where I
stand; gliding, over Winters leave.

I stand there, staring, stock and still,
my breath comes silent, soft and
slow. She comes then closer,
stepping sure, closer still, in grace
unmatched; pure in beauty,
pure and free.

I gaze into her liquid eyes, lost
in depths before un-found; lost
in secrets, in her amber eyes.
Her breath is soft upon my face,
warm, it smells of earth, of life.
I realize then that I hold my
breath, slow I release it, silent,
soft. Her eyes blink, gently,
once, the Doe standing silent,
there before me, desire of my
heart.

It seems she will speak.

And then, I am alone, lost in
the wood, alone with the trees,
and the scent of her passing,
lingering still, on the sighing
breeze. And I am alone, with
the scent of her passing, alone
with the wind, and the sighing
trees.

I sit before my window silent,
arms at rest upon the sill; I
sit and dream of silent things,
as the rain falls slanted upon
the gabled roof; winds sighing:
and watch the falling rain
appear, and silver streak the
window-pane. I sit and dream,
the world forgotten, and even
so do my dreamings change;
no more of sad forgotten silence,
color blooms behind my eyes,
and fills my mind with rainbow
light, shining, as the glow behind
the key-hole, as the blushing
dawn fresh washed in rain.
Thunder roars beyond
the pane, and lightning cracks
the sky in twain, but out of
revery, out of dream, I do
not wake for the crashing
din. Rather, then, in sudden
sequence, in a seconds flash
of swift cessation, no more of
color do I dream, no more
on rainbow laughing light,
but in the midst of a storm of
thunder, of lightning, and the
lashing rain, high above the
foundered land, I find myself:
and amidst all that raging
torrent, between the thunder,
and the wrath of Gods most
holy lightning, a single drop of
silver shining, strikes the
point between my eyes,
wherein the third sleeping
oculus of dream doth
dwell; and I wake. A leak
in the roof.

Standing, I rise,
within, the
weight of
doubt, of
fear, of
the lack of
will to pursue
my dreams,
my goals,
my life, fall
from me...
and I am free
and alone
and together,
and happy, at
last...and all that
may be achieved
lies in my path,
waiting, and all
obstacles that
stand in my way,
are as dust
in the wind, in the
face of my will,
and the knowledge
shining within
me, that nothing
is impossible, if one
will only believe,
and have faith, in
destiny, and in
oneself.

I looked, once,
up into a sky
grey, and milky
white. My mind
spun along
trails of
unconscious
thought,
brief and fleeting
as the zephyr
that occasionally
brushed my face..
my eyes slid shut,
and my lips
curved, into
the smallest of
smiles, as I sat
there, still, empty
...calm, and content,
as the gentle
breath of the
west ruffled
my hair,
gently, and
from my fingers,
dropped a
band of gold,
down, into
the abyss below...
down, as I
stand, and
turning,
walk away
from that place,
and I am
happy,
as I go,
leaving
that
memory of
love,
that place
of
beginnings,
and of
ends,
softly,
as we part,
equals, the
silence,
and I.
At last.
At last...

I sit, staring, all around me
darkness, the shadows of the
night lurk about me, while
the soft sighs of the spirits
of the abyss, of darkness,
of death, of despair, swirl
around me, finding their way
into the depths of my heart,
of my soul...plunging me into
nothingness, and drawing a
grey veil over my eyes...I wander,
lost, and alone...and all is ashes,
and dust, upon the winds and
tides of the currents of Time...
and I am lost..

Dreaming,
the body is
left behind...
and the soul
is cut loose,
to wander
the realms,
that lie beyond
our bodies,
and our lives.

Sleeping,
I dreamed..
and I flew...

My heart,
it strained,
tears ran,
welling
from my
lids, to
track their
way,
down the
lines of my
face.

Of the
affairs of
my love,

Ashes and Dust...

I hear her
speak, her
words, fall
through me,
to land
soundly,
on the singing
land that
is my heart,
as she says
the words,
the blessed
words,
"I love you"

I wake, rising, in the dark
of night. I stare, into the
blackness, and listen to the
quiet, and to her breathing,
soft and shallow, there at my
side.

Her face is pale, as I light
the lamp, hanging at my
side, across from her. Her
hair, red, lies stretched, out
across the sheets, thin and
dull, in the flickering glow.

I blow out, the lamp. I lay
down again, softly beside
her. The tears track their
way down the weathered
grooves in my cheeks, and
fall noiselessly, as I lie there,
sleepless, in the night.

The fire blazes, crackles and snaps,
the women dance around its light,
while the men around, in the dark-
ling shadows, beat the drums to the
song of life.

Flutes sigh their trilling songs,
and strings dance and thrum and
blur, as the fiddle plays its wild
abandon, out, into the currents of
the night.

The wild boar is caught and spit,
its dripping fat, the flames do lick,
and now the call to feast and song,
to mead and meat and legend tall,
under the stars and the hunters
moon!

The mountains echo to the
drumbeats call, the forests
ring with their rhythmic fall,
the birds rise into the frost
laden winds, the ground shakes
beneath the call...

When walking the twisting,
winding trails, of the wood
in that time of frost and fire,
I sometimes forget the hours,
and the minutes, and the days,
and wish I could go walking,
till the end of the ways.


I love to see the fire of the
twisted autumn leaves,
left behind in silence, now
all encased in frost.


And yet I love it most of
all, when walking in the
woods, when dawn is finally
breaking, and the night
wind finally stills. I love
to see the tree limbs, and the
twiglings, and the leaves, all
shining in glorious wintry
splendor, for noone, but for me.

I rise, slowly, in the grey morning
light. I raise my eyes, and seeking,
sought; the grey light of dawn,
filters down, between the eaves.

Dressing, clad in the days grey skin,
I step down the covered stairs, soft
as a whisper, born upon the breeze,
for the fear of detection, and the desire
to be gone.

Opening the sighing door, I pause, and
turn, hand still grasping the reluctant
handle, as I see her, beautiful, in her night
gown, her black hair streaming, her eyes,
rimmed with red.

She looks at me, and there is nothing in her
eyes, but sadness, regret, and resignation. She
turns away, and I leave, closing the door
behind me.

I drive to work, sitting behind the wheel,
the grey sky empty, and the black road
full. I look to my right, to my left, and
behind. Everywhere I look, I see the same.
Black suit, grey tie, short-cut hair, and
empty eyes.

I close mine. Open them. The world seems
no different; no change meets my gaze.
only cars and commuters, going forward to
slave.

I look down, up again. My hand reaches, finds
the cold, smooth handle. I raise it. My eyes
close. I think of her, my wife, as the cold end
of the long dull rod touches my temple. A tear
wells slowly in my eye, to fall, softly along my
face. I don't brush it away.

My fingers tremble. They don't know their duty.
My hands shake, as tear follows tear, drifting slowly,
down the lines of my face, careworn, in the line of
pointless duty. My fingers steady, my hands grow still.
It is the breaking point..my mind is blank, as I pull
the trigger...red roses fill my head, as I fall, forward
against the wheel, and the world goes dark.

Rain,
falling softly,
from clouds
the soft sheen
of shimmering pearls,
grey in the dawns
fledgling light,
falls to bring the
breath of life to
the parched soil,
and cleanse the earth,
in its gentle caress,
as it flows on, down,
until at last it ceases;
the clouds break apart,
slowly drifting, away into
the great blue expanse
of the sky, and the sun
breaks through,
in all its shining
glory.

Warm,
huddled
close to the
hearth.
Hiding,
from the
cold
bite of
Winter;
snow's on the
horizon.


Wind,
sighing,
out in the
bitter chill,
of a cold
Winters night,
all decked in
frost.



Snowflakes,
softly falling,
to brush the
frost-hard
ground, soft
as a kiss,
feather-light;
mark of
departed
love.


Silence,
a weight
of silent
sound;
moths
wings,
fluttering
in the
dark.
Such a
weight
of
silent
sound,
outside
in the
dark.


I curl here,
crouched
beside the
crackling
hearth;
outside the
wind is
blowing,
whistling
through
the trees,
barren
branches
clacking
in the
wintry
breeze.


And I sleep.

The winter snow falls,
in a gentle shifting mass,
flakes drifting, cold kisses
of passing frost, to blanket
the ground in ice and silence.

The wind is idle, the land
is calm, the frost content
to spread and grow, to
weight the ancient trees
with snow.

I sit here in the winter chill
breath frosting out into the
silence. I look out over those
sleeping trees, buried under
weight of snow, and I smiled,
and slept, and the world was
content.

The waves lapped the shore
of those gently rolling hills
of sand, stretching out to the
far horizon. Gulls circled,
high above me, their plaintive
calls reflective, of the grey of
the morning, and the grey of
my heart.

The rain hides my
streaming tears,
as they fall to mix
with the water of
the clouds, to
linger, and then
disperse, to be lost
in the rain,
in the sleepless
city.

Head bent, thoughts cramped, doing
the motions again and again and one
more time, I heard a car honk, and a
guy yellin' somethin' in Italian  at some poor
old lady, who wanted to drive slow,
and take it easy, now that she'd done
all she wanted to do, and seen all she
wanted to see. I looked up at the clock,
saw that it was five fifteen, and I knew that my
boss would have a fit, and probably lay
me off, if I left now, but after givin' the
matter some careful thought, I decided I
just didn't give a ****. I walked out,
slammin' doors as I went, and walkin'
with a long stride that wasn't permitted
in the building, on account of all the noise
it made, which bothered all those good
christian folks, who wanted to slave away
the best part of their lives, working for a
**** boss, doing a meaningless job, all to
put money in the fat mans pocket. May
be, I thought, all that noise might wake em
up. I slammed open the front doors, and broke
flat out into a dead run towards where that ****
Italian guy was still giving that old lady trouble
and lookin' to be enjoying it too. I stopped beside
the guys car, and, seein' that it was a convertible,
I just reached in, grabbed him by his shirt cuffs,
and just yanked him right out of it. It was
some pretty slow movin' traffic anyways. I
lifted him up, so that his face was right about
level with mine, and I said to him,"Buddy, I don't
wanna hear anymore of this **** from you,
ya got me? She's an Old lady just trying to
get home in her own good time, and if I hear
anymore about you harassing those as make you a little
late, well there's lots more where this came from."
After that I proceeded to give him a beating
I don't think he was likely to forget in a hurry.
He was a pretty big guy, but I guess all the stress
of the job must have got to me, because after a
few hits to the jaw he just went limp and just took
it. When I was done I went over to the Old lady,
who was just standin' there stock still, I guess from
the shock of seeing a little guy like me take on
a big guy like him and coming out on top. I wiped the
blood from my split knuckles off on my shirt tails
and asked the Old lady what her name was, and if I
could do anything for her. "Marianne" she said, and
she said that if I really didn't have anything better
to do I could take her home, if I knew a faster way to
get there. It was a simpler time back then I guess, and
folks were a lot more trusting back then. I told her I
could get her out of town and out into the suburbs in about
the time it'd take her to say "Jack Robinson" fast, if that
was where she was heading, and she said that
sounded just fine. I took her to my car and opened
the door for her, and then I got in and we took off.
On the way she thanked me for givin' that guy who
was yelling at her what was comin' to him, and I
said it was my pleasure. When we got to the suburbs
I dropped her off at the address she told me, and told
her to take care of herself. She told me she would.
Then she hugged me, and told me her house was
always open to me, and I thanked her kindly, but I
told her I probably wasn't going to impose on
her hospitality just yet, seein' as I was going on a
little trip and wouldn't be back in a while. She said
she understood, and kissed me on the cheek before
turning away and going inside, and I watched her until
her big yellow front door slid shut with a click.
I stood there for awhile, and then I turned and got
back into my car and drove away, off into the sunset,
just like they do in those old westerns. And I laughed
loud and long as I drove away into that shining golden sunset.
And if that isn't the best, most prefect ending to a
day that started off as dreary as you can ever imagine, then
I don't know what is.

Sitting high in the window seat,
below me the throng of a city of
legions, above me a roof and the
vault of the sky, I turn my thoughts
inward, let my hand pluck the
strings, as I send out jeweled notes
to be lost to the breeze.

I once sat beneath an oak, in that
golden time before the sunset,
before the light fades to the ruddy
orange that marks the beginning
of the dying of the sun.

I saw a leaf, large, green light shining
softly through, to tinge the ground an
emerald hue. A wind rose in the flaming
west, rising high on thermal tides, and
came sighing down, down into the valley,
at last to the tree, to the leaves, and to me.

The wind struck the rooted oak, set the
limbs all to swaying, set the swaying
grasses sighing. I watched the leaf in its
great-hearted struggle, flailing against the
pull of the swift flowing breeze.

Distraught I watched as its stem was
pulled taught, and often my breath
caught in my throat, as my eyes sure
convinced me of its imminent leave.
Yet all in vain.

For at last the wind grew weary of
its voice, and ceased its sighing
through those low rolling hills. And
all was quiet, there in the valley, and I
smiled, and was calm, and the world
was content.

Many scoff when they hear of
things, said or done too often
for their palate. But the power
of the act lies not in repetition,
or its absence, but in the act
itself, whether it be performed
once, or a thousand, thousand
times, for as long as there is one
among the throng who is willing
to open himself once more to
wonder, the power of the act will
continue, forever, and for eternity.

Once I lay in Summers heat;
laid on the grass, 'neath a
tall swaying tree, sole
shade in that sunlit field.
I looked up through the rocking
limbs, through the myriad sighing
leaves, and saw a shining speck of
dust come floating in the breeze.
And I laughed to see it hanging there,
just floating in the breeze.

Life, the state of living.

Survival, the act of continuing the state of life.

To live, to be whole, to be happy, to bring joy to others.

To survive, to continue the state of life, with no regard for any but oneself.

Consider which one should choose.

I look at her face, and smile, and warmth
swells in my chest as I see her smile in turn.
Age has dulled her blazing beauty, and lies
on her now like a mantle of lead, bending her
back, arresting her tread. And yet our love has
grown, not withered, and our hearts speak truly to
one another, for we are joined, in heart and mind,
and we care for each other, more than we do
ourselves. As the years have passed, our forms
have withered, have become vessels of the most fragile
glass, through which the light of ours souls burn as stars
in the infinite heavens, and our souls communicate, one
with the other, for there is no boundary, no obstacle left,
so far down the road. We speak little, for our actions speak
more clearly than words, and when we do, we seek only to
confirm our love and our trust, unnecessarily, for we are one,
and forever will be, in this life, and beyond, together, for all
eternity.

I sit in front of the fire and think, of olden
days, of yore. Of those moments which, by
virtue of their power, still shine golden, or
shimmer darkly, like ebony in a pool in the
dying light, out of the mists of age and forget-
fullness, this both a blessing and a curse, to one
who has lived so long as I. For I have seen many
triumphs and celebrations, and many more defeats
and fruitless victories, these like the long dark shadow
stretching out from the pillar of my accomplishments.
This pillar is the anchor of my life; without it, I would be
lost in the sea of my own wretched failures. And yet,
still, from my vantage point atop that shining monument
that enshrines all that was, is, and will be good in my life, still
the shadow grows, along with the pillar itself, for though
I have passed that point of sweet and soaring ****** at the
epitome of my life, and have long since begun the descending
spiral towards the grave, I am not yet dead. And yet, even as my pillar grows, so does my shadow, and its length grows longer as my years increase, and the memory of past failures compound one upon the other, until they are stretched far out to the distant horizon, and have filled it with darkness and shadows, for the sun is low, as my age ascends, and so the shadows lengthen. And yet. Through all of this, of the pain of my failures, of the tragedies of my defeats, of the defeats of others who were close to my heart, peace is with me, and I have no fear, and I am happy, and I give of myself to others, and expecting nothing, receive all, for the gratitude and happiness of others in response to ones generosity and love, is the greatest reward that one may hope to attain.
For I do not dwell only in the past, but in the present, and do not impose worry and fear upon my soul through vain speculations of what the future may bring, and instead live in the present, and think on the past, and act according to what I believe to be right, before the eyes of man, and the eyes of God. And all is right with me, and I am happy, and as I sit here before the hearth, the fire leaping merrily, and crackling like a thousand distant fireworks, I smile, and sink softly into sleep.

I once walked a lonely path,
that threaded its way so elegantly,
throughout that vast and wooded
sea. I had thought to walk for peace of
mind; for that calm and refreshing clarity,
that comes from long unbroken solitude.
But instead, to my increased confusion,
knowing as I do that all men walk with the
seeds of chaos and confusion buried in their
hearts, I found that my thoughts walked
with me, down that lonely mountain path.
My attention lingered, as it were, on the
roughness of the track, and from there leapt
from wood to sky, to consider the path itself.
Such a wondrous creature, this winding thing,
such a strange and marvelous structure! So simple
to see, to comprehend, upon ones first inspection,
but upon further query and strain of ones senses, one
sees that indeed, against all sane reason, it warrants some
further reflection! Oh true, very true, this thing of which I
speak, so endearingly, is merely a track, an ignominious scratch,
stretching its dusty way through these unending woods, but think, for a moment, simply think, about all this, all that I have to say, regarding this humble path. Think how it stretches, for miles, for years! All unbroken and unwearied continuing on through cracked gorge and wooded valley, over hills and mountains tall, never speaking a word of complaint or discomfort, only seeking to deposit its travelers at their desired destination, and continue on its way. Consider if you will the vastness of this earth, of the uncounted millions of miles that lie between her frozen poles. If you are certain of nothing, be certain of this; that this single path stretches the length and width of our planet entire, be it a dirt track through a sighing wood, or a goat path high among the jagged cliffs and peaks of Patagonia, or even the mighty ocean currents used by those unknowable dwellers of the capricious sea.  There is only one path, one long mighty river with innumerable tributaries, which stretches its way to the ends of the earth, and back again, and everywhere in between. Such were my thoughts that day, as I wended my way down that interminable path, and such was my concentration upon the fascinating madness that lay within them, that I hardly noticed that the sun was dying, and evening was coming on, and only when the light was gone, and the darkness began to weigh heavily on my soul, that I roused myself from these winding thoughts, and even as I did so, a light drizzle began to fall, which soon compounded into a driving rain, under which I was left to stumble and trip my way back down that terrible path, back to the small hamlet where it began, or passed. And yet I was glad, for I had gained, if not what I had desired, a thing of worth at least as great, if not more so, and that strange mad enlightenment which I had gained while walking the long and wearying miles of that mountain path would, I knew, remain with me, for better or for worse, for always, and for forever.

Drifting....seed caught in the wind of life,
one more among many; a grain in a storm
of a thousand sands. Wandering, lost in the
sighing ether, suspended between earth and
sky, it sees many things, and yet sees nothing.
Meaning is lost to it, feeling torn from its numb
grasp, in the hour of its waking. It has known
nothing, has felt nothing, save for the grey air of
the world without, and the grey within; there
where his heart had been.

I walk and think of yesteryear,
as I wend these winding ways;
I loved the life, the youth of
Spring; yet I yearned for the
cold and the fleeting days.


My passion rose in the Summers
heat; a fire awoke within me. Yet
even as I reveled in that pagan
idyll, I pined for the cold and the
frost and silence.


I saw the sleeping trees of Autumn;
I gazed at the burning wood. But
even as my heart rejoiced in my
breast, I knew that it was not enough.


Now I walk in Winter-tide, and behold
the blackened trees. The crackle and snap
of dead leaves underfoot is like an
ever present symphony, in that pale winters
day. I pace under bough, under cloud,
under sky, and the wind loves me, and is
present at my side. Age lies on the sleeping
hills, and youth is far from me, as I wander
through the frosted halls, of that wondrous
Winter wood. And I looked out at the silent
land, frosted under weight of snow, and I
saw that it was good.

lying here listening, I think of many
things, as I listen to the soft sound of
the singing sands in the cool nights
autumn breeze.

I think of many things, in the time before
dawn, of loves lost and loves found, and
loves never to be had. I think of life and death,
and the whirring of cicadas, short lives filled
with sound, and wonder as to the mysteries of
the universe, and whether rain will come today.

Confused and lost in the morning chill, I wander
back to myself again, home from exile in the day dream lands; and I smile at the rising dawn,
illuminating the snow all around me, and my breath
frosts in the frozen air, as I gaze out at a frozen lake,
and wonder what will be.

the hearth crackled, the flames spat.
Warmth came from its dancing recesses,
and with it light to greet the shadows.
I curled in front of this ancient thing,
yet newborn through the strength of my
will. And I dozed before the flickering flames,
courting shadows as well as light. And my
heart was glad.

The Oak stands tall in the verdant spring,
his hair arrayed all about him, resplendent
in leafy splendor. Birds sing in his branches.

Vigor runs in his ancient veins, his boughs
heavy with seeded acorns; squirrels chatter in
his reaching limbs, arms stretched to the azure
heavens, in that time of swelling Summer.


The cool wind blows, in Autumn, in time. Leaves
flushed with crimson hue, fall to lie amid the great
oaks roots, and among the faded grass, sighing; The
fox hunts in the flaming wood.


The old oak stands firm, its branches swaying in the
cold winds of winter. Its boughs are bare, its stems are
black, the bear is sleeping, the days are short. Yet life
remains in the sleeping wood, buried deep, waiting for
the song of the laughing brook, for the robin and the
thrush; waiting for green Springs return.

The waves on the bracken shore,
wind on the heath. The seabirds
wheeling, far aloft, in grey and
stormy skies.

cliffs stern to the keening wind,
trees bent in the forceful gale;
scattered grass sways before
the tide.

Tall stone and weathered rock,
lying spread about its feet.
Young woman, standing, hair
tossed by the laughing wind, as it
passes on its way.

Patched cloak snapping, her frayed
hems snapping, eyes shining before the
storm, she stands tall in the shrieking gale,
yet sways as a willow, fair in the light of
the lingering sunset.

she stands, feet set, head high,
her eyes are bright in the fading
light, keen as she stands before the
storm; knowing it will come. Knowing
that it will pass her by.

The suns shining here,
the clouds are softly rolling,
to the winds gentle sighing,
as it passes the old oak by.

Oh the winds softly shushing,
as it passes the old oak by.

See a maiden there,
young and fair, a spring
in her step, and leaves in
her hair. See her stepping,
light as air, as she hangs the
washing from the old pine boughs;
her eyes are bright, her face without
care.

Oh, look and see that maiden there, with a
spring in her step and leaves in her hair.

The power of a voice is
like a light, in the darkness,
if spoken in love.

The sound of a whisper
spoken quiet in fear is
like the softly sharp sound,
of a scissor snipping velvet,
in sounds absence.

The tenor of a song, sung sweetly
in the silver light, in the welling
brightness of the fair moontide, is
scarcely to be described.

the cadence of the laughter of
a child in joy, is a thing to be
yearned for, and ever received.

The tears of a woman, weeping
softly in the dark; an ache in the heart,
a grief to the soul.

The power of a word is like a
bell in the silence, like the light,
like the darkness, and like the
silence returned.

The power of a word is
in the hearts of all, in the
voice and in the heart, if
spoken in tones of earnest
passion, if spoken in careful
thought.

Trees here, some old, some young;
weathered stone and pale sky.
Leaves, yellow red and orange
faded; lifted from the edge of the
high stone cliff by the wind, skirling,
there on the reach, between Earth and
Sky.

I rest beneath the spreading bows,
an oak, ancient in in life, in the living
earth, wise in the ways of growing. Wheat
surrounds us, I and the tree, together an island
amid the shifting gold, swaying in a gentle breeze,
born of the hazy south, warm and kind. The sun shines
down, as it sinks to meet the flat horizon, and fall beneath
the world. Clouds streak the sky, as the blue yields to the gold
of sunset. The birds are singing. And I wake, to behold the dawn,
and I hear the birds singing, as they too wake with the light.

Winter, Weather,
Snow and Heather,
Freeze and Feather;
Owl swifting, white
of wing. Cold and ashes,
Love and slashes,
Fire bright in the wintry
night.

To her side I laughing fell,
there in the violets, and in
the warmth of summers noon.
Love burned in my straining
breast; light reflected in the beauty
of her smile. We ran in that pagan
sunlit idyll; Life, the race and the
scented joy, as we ran in the grass,
in the light, and in laughter. Lovely, she,
in sunlit grace. Our joy the limit of
life and sky.

Still lovely, she, in death, as in life.
Lovely still, as she is laid to her rest,
down among lilies and lilacs and silk,
and amidst the tears of the living, bereft
in their joy, of the life and the youth and
the laughter that was she. I cry out in a
broken voice, "Allele! Remember the joy
and the summer and the wind in the trees!
Remember the long days laughing in the
shade of the oak, of the leaves and the
breeze and the waterfall splashing! Go not
softly into the dark tomorrow. Take your life
with you. Do not end in the darkness, alone,
in the darkness." Whispered the last, voice rough
in sorrow. And I wept, there, in the summers starlit
dark.

She stands there by the open window,
its mornings gray that lights her face.
her curls are long and fair and golden,
dulled by the light of the cold winters
morning; truthful in its stark demean.
Her face is pale and fair and lovely;
dark shadows circle her eyes, and her
eyes are gray, cold as the dawn, as they
watch the procession of men down the
road; in black are they robed, and their
cowls are dark. Her figure is lovely, or
was lovely, once; angles there are, and her lines
are hard and stark and sharp. Tall she stands
in the wasteful light, her pride a mantle, to
hold back the tide. Dressed in a sheet of
shimmering gray, almost she would blend into
the grey dawning morn, were it not for her hair,
though lackluster and shorn; longer it was in
summers fair past, till she cut it with shears and
shivers and hate. The cowled procession slows
to a stop, before a man and a pit and a naked tree.
He speaks in a voice of resonance and power; not
a tear is shed in that makeshift bower, not a tear,
not a whisper, not a head bowed in grief, for the
man they had carried. They spared him no pity; he
had shown none in life. The woman watches from
the empty tower, no tears shed there in her ancient
bower. Cold she stands in the cold morning grey,
robed in power and pride, and great beauty, past.
She watches as they lower her dead lord inside, no
coffin, he; too many had he broken. She watches
in silence, in pain, and in pride, foolish though it be
in the grey mornings light. Dirt over him. Dirt under.
A paupers grave, in a field, in winter. No honor in death;
he had had none in life. Last shovelful thrown; the ground
is smoothed over. The priest and his men leave the grey field
empty, save a tree in the center, stark in death.
she watches, and remembers, and falls in her folly, in her cold,
prideful folly, to join him in death, who had murdered her love.
To join him, though he it was who had murdered her love, and her joy and her dreams, and her young, laughing beauty. Fallen she, through prideful
folly.

Love, the fairest, purest joy.
To hear the laughter, high
and sweet, and to see her
running, swift and fleet, as
she flies for the joy,and for
love of the race. Long is her
laughter, fair is her face; her
form expression of poise and
grace, lovely, she, in the dying
light, as she stands there caught
between rest and flight. Lovely
still as night comes on, lovely as
darkness hides her form, lady fair
and pure and sweet, lady; I will
wait for the dawn.

She stands there on the
tufted mound, the lilies
of the valley all about her,
surrounding her in
scented spring. Lovely, in
the hidden dale, in the
sweetly scented spring.

I love the way the thrush is
singing, down by the cold-water,
swift-water, streaming; its babbling
the thrush mistook, for laughing in
the madding way, that streams take on,
when lost in glee, in Summers gladding,
madding sway.

Grey dawns the morning cold; dew
gathers on the mould. while robins sing
in freshen voices, and water runs in the
swift-water way, in the mornings lovely
cold.