It's blue outside, tinted
in the colors of the rain-
bow, some bold, some not.
The flowers are nodding,
back and forth, like a sea of
violets and reds and oranges
and green stalks. The wind Is
blowing.


It's dark in here, all the lamps
turned way down, all the candles
gone out. Sweet smoke curls up
from the stumps and swirls around
in the darkness; the cloying scent
makes me sleepy.


I look out through a crack in the
curtains, my eyes are dazzled by
the light; spots floating beneath my
lids. When I look back, I can't see.
Drawn, I stare out, the sun hidden
by a passing cloud, glowing orange
behind the white, and watch.


The pines are sighing, alone in their
thicket, a favorite pastime of theirs,
as they watch the flowers in their
sway.


Clouds scud past, gold and red
with the sunset. The crickets
are chirping. Birds sing to one
another in the trees, light and
sweet. The flapping of wings
resounds and echoes throughout
the meadow, as a flock of tired
geese glide down to rest. The grass
is rustling.


I turn and let the curtains fall
closed. I look at the dim and
cluttered room that surrounds
me, I smell the dust and the
mold and the thinning candle
smoke. I sigh, once. And I walk
out, out the door, into the light
and the sunset. And I don't look
back.

Waking Weary, I dress for the day.
Nodding I sit and curse the delay.
Waiting for work to come take me
away.

I'd rather just sleep here to while the
day, but since I cannot I do curse the
delay.

A wooded valley, cradled between the arms of
the earth, nestled in a bowl of stone and soil.
A breeze comes down from the silent heights,
sets the leaves all to sighing, last voices in their
dying, as they fluttering fall, a rain of fire, in that
cold and sleeping wood, beneath those grey and
clouded skies, in that time of winter.

The birds have flown, long time past, sensing the
advent of winter, fleeing before the storm. No
sound mars the stillness, in that sleeping silent wood,
no sound but the quiet gentle knocking of the limbs all
together, in the sway of the whistling wind. The sun shines
in pale radiance, in that bleak time of winter.

The clouds gather, grey they merge and so release their
weight of frost, down upon the sleeping land, waiting in repose.
Snow falls to weight the limbs, and bow the branches,
down towards the earth, carpeting all in a sheen of
silent white. Ice hangs down from the rocky ledges,
and from the weighty bows, shining in the pale light.
The streams have frozen, white paths through the
trackless waste, and ice covers the swift rivers over, locking
them in frozen silence, their singing laughter stilled at last.

Wind shrieks and hail comes falling, snow and ice together
descending, down from the maelstrom from which they sprung.
Blizzard roaring, blankets the wood in the arms of the earth, locking
it sure in the cold grip of winter. Now wind falls and hail abates, the
rain of snow slows and stops, and the trees rest from their knocking.
And all was still in that time of winter.

What is the worth of a good mans life?
Of his death?
What can be said to be worth the dying gasp of
a man of his word?

No more and no less than the cause of his death.

For in that lies the potential of action  and change,
And the means to touch fate and turn it.


In this lies the worth of his death, as it is in all mens who will it to be so.

And so from life and the flower
of her youth, has she fallen to the
dust in death. She who laughed with
joy and who wept with her sorrow,
has passed beyond us. Her passion
unequaled, her vibrancy unmatched,
she burned as a flame to gather the lost
and the weary, and give them light and
love and laughter, and to bring them in from
the cold and the darkness. She who had nothing,
gave everything, even unto death. Food for the
hungry, rest for the weary, care for the sick, joy
for the sorrowful. She who loved, was loved in
return by all who saw the care in her eyes and the pain,
borne willingly, so that others might not suffer.
Her spirit strong unto the end, she dried the tears of
those who wept for her, and embraced their sorrow, so that
they might have peace and endure no suffering.
She was our light and our joy, the hearth to which we
came in our sorrow and our grief, to be held and comforted,
and to ease our saddened souls. She who would take our pain
and turn it into joy and light and laughter, now is cold and buried
in the stone. Now farewell to you we must cry and leave you to
your rest. Goodbye, my love. We will meet again in the far fields
of joy and laughter which lie beyond the veil of death. We must.
Farewell.

Life,
fled from you.
Death ousted you,
Driven you from the the
temple of the flesh which was
yours. Spirit flown, you lie there still,
unknowing of the tears all around you, as
they cede you to the grave, and so to death and
memory. And yet on your face a peace resides, profound
in its quiet repose, a sign perhaps from beyond the grave, that
you have found peace at the end.

Goodbye, Grandfather,

Rest in peace.

Silence, the void before the sound,
It hangs between the watchers, as they
stare  into the fire, burning in the center,
casting light in a myriad of shadows. And
all is still. Before them lie their instruments
nine, stringed and bowed, drums and fiddles.
They lift them to their sides as one, and all relax
as their hands caress their singing lovers. A breath,
drawn deep; released into the stillness of the night,
and the music sounds, as a cord too strained the tension
snaps, and the music soars on singing wings, waves of
light, of light and shadow, born on a wind of deepest
passion, out into the thrumming night, resonating with
their song. And so the music sounds, as the night awakes
and joins in their song.

The stars are fading, the moon is falling.
Above the midnight canopy lightens slowly;
shades of gray, spreading out, day is breaking.
Dawn comes with the rising sun. Light soars to fill
the sky, red and gold, nights shadows chased before
it, the Sun, resplendent in shining glory, bringer of the
new day. Birds cry and leap from the trees, notes shrill and
joyous, fair heralds of the day. The sun climbs slowly, beginning
it's journey across the heavens, the sky, glorious in azure splendour.
Clouds, wisps of shining air, frail in the light of day, change from the ruddy
red and the the glowing gold; colors of the new dawn. Pearly white they grace the
sky, celestial palaces and woodland creatures, the deer and the dragon, all in white within
the blue. And so the noontime passes, clouds obscuring then revealing, the sun eternal
rides the sky, and the clouds shine with light and the creatures of the air soar, crying
Praises of the sun in shrill voices. Eventide, the birds glide down to rest, in
the bowers of the trees. The light is green and gold, red and violet, white and
pink, colors of the sunset. The sun falls in the west, the moon rises in the
east, and at last the day is done, the Suns splendour vanished,
replaced by the shining light of a pale moon, and the far
away light of a thousand, thousand stars. And so is
day ended, and night begun, the darkness given sway.
The world lies in shadow, sleep takes the creatures
of the sun, the earth lies in shadow, to await the
new day.

Thunder roars its booming wrath,
lightning splits the darkling sky,
Ground trembles, mountains shake,
raging waves rise in fury, to dash to
pieces the trembling man, cowering
before the wrath, the raging storm,
Begs for mercy, cries in pain, lightning
smites his prostrate form, earth cracks
and swallows him, waves falling, rushing
in, Man is gone, destroyed in fire, and the earth
stills, the clouds depart, the waves recede to
ocean deep, this the fate of he who walked
the sacred ground, my only son.

Silence

The barren hill


Silence

The rusting gate


Silence

The downcast eyes


Silence
And gentle melancholy


Hand in hand,

The Great Divide


Chasm

Falling down...


Abyss

Unspannable


Separating

The dark from the white


Mist from the light...


Jump...?

Spring
time of life
growth

Death
from out
Life

Life
from out
Death

My mind is empty. I struggle eternally with myself,
to find the words to write, to find some meaning in
this life. I scream soundlessly and beat against the door
that holds everything, so close and yet forever far. I try
to speak with wisdom and with certitude, to gently show
those erring the way, back into the sunlight, back, away from
the shadows, away from the death that comes to the living,
waiting, weighing, cold and heavy within your breast, a silent
stone of poison lead, content to wait, to drag, to drown, to pull
them down to final death, an empty pit in which no pain resides,
and to which no pain can be brought. It is left at the door, forgotten
and discarded, left to join the vast wastes of hate and anger, joy and
sorrow, love and melancholy, the trappings of life. I plead and hope
that someone, somewhere heeds my words, and I hope that they do
not read on and come to the bitter times when darkness covered me,
and I wrote of darkness, and sorrow, pain and melancholy.
I am so tired.

The wind. Ever blowing, unchanging, and yet change
is its nature. Soothing and driving, gentle and furious.
I have written of this before. The wind. I have spoken
of the slow wearing of erosion, down upon the stones,
I have written of the rain it drives to freezing frenzy,
of its gentle breezes, of its gales, of its storms. And I have
felt the wind. I have heard it howl through the trees like an
avenging spirit, I have seen it tear the leaves from the swaying limbs
and raise them high to heaven, and hurl them down to
Earth again, terrible in its fury. I have felt it, when I stood
beside the lake, in the first beginnings of the new Spring, how
it blew softly through my hair, gentle as a mothers hand. I saw
as it stirred the waters of the lake, and set them to lapping gently
at the shore, and at the pillars of the dock, there beside me. And I
remember thinking in that moment, that life was good, and I remember
that I was happy. I have written of the wind. I have seen it, I have felt it,
I have heard it, whispering through the leaves, and knocking the bare limbs
softly together, in that time of winter. I have known the wind. And yet I wonder,
whether something such as this, may ever be truly known, the sighing breeze,
the howling gale. Perhaps.

I am young. My mind some say, is old,
and I feel the need to stop the striving,
the searching, the trying to sculpt and
craft words into something high and
wonderful. Simple, I think, is best, now,
when all my pride has been laid low, and my
Soul has been touched by the simple words of
Love and Life, spoken and written, words to
touch the heart.

I look back, see, and regret.
so much of darkness, so much of
bitterness, of despair, of death, of the
chill of being forgotten for ever and ever
and ever..... I look back and wish. Wish upon
the fading star, the falling moon, the setting sun,
wish that I had not taken so of the darker pleasures,
had not indulged this passion for words of pain,
had not opened the door for gentle melancholy.
Wistfully do I weep, for the grief around the corner,
and for the quiet breath of silent death, as he steals
away the precious life, an old man dying, taken at last,
leaves as nothing, leaving nothing, taking naught save
sad regret, leaving naught save life gone wasted.
Bitterly do I weep, deep in the silent tomb of
myself, and wish that I had taken a little of the light
before it was too late, leaving naught but sad regret,
and bottles at the door.

I am dreaming, I know.
Land unknown spread out
before me, air charged, expectant
of the coming storm,
cool wind sighing past, and setting
the leaves all to rustling. Sunset, glorious
in days dying.
I am dreaming, I know.

Wandering.
Night fills the sky,
path lit by burning lamps,
few and far between.

Stumbling.
Jasmine in the air,
silence fled, returns in
abscence, of my footsteps,
upon the hard and cobbled
way.

Tears.
wind stirs the leaves,
And sighs a song of
soft farewell, flowing
through the grasp of folly,
fingers stretched to empty air,
And the shining stars above.

Gone.
Stars fade and pass away,
the moon falls in knowledge,
of the coming of the day.
Cool darkness fades.
And I left with nothing,
bitter memory, and the tattered
shreds of dream.

Once, there was a wind, and in its
swirling, spinning path it touched
many things. Trees bent in sway to
the rising gale, flowers bowed by a
passing sigh, leaves pulled from their
rest, to sway and dance in the lifting
wind, high into the moving air, while
trees that before were clad, now are bare.
Stark and naked. as the wind falls, two trees
move to the winds desire, and swaying
catch, and swaying hold, branches linked.
A gateway to nothingness, to which all things
go in time, dust on the wind.

Hot, cool.
Damp, moist.
Blurring, biting, stinging clouds.
Spring Weather.

A man looks on, beyond himself,
a thunder-storm is brewing, and
though it isn't raining yet, he knows
the storm is stewing.

A man dreams of sunken towers,
windows shattered, dark and empty.
And yet between these broken giants,
swimming cars are speeding by, traffic
ghastly in its size, yet blurring past
without a sound, while sharks and fishes
swim overhead, and eels hide in their
gravel-stone beds.


He stares surreal, lost
in wonder, at the wonderful madness of the
scene all before him. And then a change, a
slowing, stopping, beasts and motors grind to
a halt, and all is still, and all is silent, save for the
gentle swaying of clinging plants, in the cracks and
hollows of Times old ruins. Crack! A short and ringing
sound, first to break the ancient silence. And then, in the
stillness after the shock, a long thin crack appeared on
the side, of that old and towering corpse.


Then came a feel, a shimmering thing, reminding
the man of the heat of a fire in the shivering chill of a cold winters
evening. And in this strange feel, this shimmering thing,
the dreaming man watched, with eyes stretched as far
as they ever could go, as the wall started to sway, to
shiver and creak! He knew this insanity had reached its
peak! As he watched, he saw, he turned all to pale, as
an eye of monstrous, hideous size, opened before him,
blue iris watching, watching him watching, as that eye
stretched as far as it ever could go.


It's pupil was golden,
and it's whites were all yellow, like the tired old color of weary
old bone. It stared at the man, who was watching in turn,
an then with a horrible, hideous crackle, it's huge golden
pupil, it started to burn. Encircled by flames, blue-gold and pale,
it's pupil it shrank, and it shrank down some more, till at last
with a ******* and succulent sound, it was gone, it was vanished!
It was staring no more.


And then with a crack and a rumbling sound,
the eye started to close, it's lids falling slowly, but before they closed the
man thought he perceived, a flickering light where the pupil should be.
With a shivering shudder the man woke with a start. His face was all
sweaty, his sheets were all soaked. The man closed his eyes, and shivered
with fear, at that horrible dream, with that eye full of fire. And there in the
dark of that midwinters night, the man stayed awake till the first hint of
light.

On the clouds, moors of heaven,
skidding by, oh would to fly, as
a cloud in a rushing, driving gale.
Wind screaming, tearing, wearing,
lift the trees and raise the stones!
Topple moors and masts alike, and
drive the waves to foaming roar, on
the rocks of the wine-dark sea. On
the edge of the wine-dark sea. Driving,
driving, lifting, falling, speed my lover
home to me. Home to me, home to me,
upon the raging wine-dark sea. To me
across the empty sea.

Upon the grassy, sunlit mound, wind blowing, leaves quaking,
sighing words of sun and rain, the trees speak in weathered tones,
of sun and moon and star and stone. Stalks waving, soil crumbling,
life wakes beneath the ground, and stirring moves to face the sun.
In the early days of spring.

The tall grass waving,
leaves sighing, sun shining.
Silence crowns the lonely hill,
and life moves slowly, calmly on,
while peace abides between the
cracks, in the ancient mossy stones.
In the old and silent stones.

Days end. sun falling,
gone behind the distant
hills. I watch the vibrant
colors, spread across the sky,
days dying tribute to the fast
approaching night, and wonder,
at the beauty of days dying, and
the lighting of the stars, bright specks
of light, shining in the dark.

Quiet, gentle daughter,
for the day is beginning,
and we have yet to pray,
to the many thousand
beginnings come and gone,
lost to the faded past,
and to those that shine ethereal,
that light of change and promise,
of tomorrow's new day.

The lonely notes flowing, falling, leap from
The thin and flitting fingers of the pianist,
The cup of melancholy, drained to the
dregs, bittersweet in that the love of happiness
and joy is tempered now, from longing for the
delicate and pensive feel, that comes from dipping into
the small and lonely pool of melancholy. Grief, a distant
specter, hovering in the fringe of chance, is nearer now,
melancholy, the doorway, slides open on silent hinges,
and admits the crushing tide. High, high, and faster still,
the pianist falls, slowly down and up again, grief, the storm,
disrupts the flow of sound and silence, and incorporates itself
into the threading melody, and so erodes the shores of joy and laughter,
the violet waves of gentle melancholy, laced with the thinnest threads of
blackest grief, sighing on, erasing so, youth and joy and light and life.
The melody falters, stills. The pianist alone, playing for an empty quiet,
rises, pauses, his fingers brushing, the cold steel of empty death, smooth beneath his touch. He grasps it, lifts it to face him, hands steady, gaze unfaltering. The man is still, pianists fingers gripping that instrument of death, and time passes, unheeded, ignored. In a motion refined to elegance by the passage of time and repetition, the pianist places that cold instrument of steel and intent gently, down upon the polished black. He straitens, slowly, and settling his black overcoat close around him, he turns, walks quietly to a closed and silent door, lifts the latch, and into a swirling night of snow and light, walks out, and closes the door behind him with a soft and quiet click. And all is silent.

Spring,
time of life, of heat, beginnings
growings, season of joy, I do not
celebrate your warmth, nor rejoice
your heralding of summer, your bringing
of the fresh new growth. For I am tired, and weary
of the world, and sleep seems a balm, a soothing remedy,
And I shall go to it, when my time has
passed. As Spring must pass into Summer, Summer into Fall,
Fall into Winter, so will the seasons pass, and the whitening and
the shortening of the days come closer, ever closer, while I wait
amidst the eddies and swirls of youth and life and joy, buffeting me like
waves whipped to fury by the wind and lashing rain. Waiting, I stand.
Waiting I fall. Waiting I rise again, and wait once more for the season of silence
and darkness and soft tranquility, cool in its embrace, long in its passing.
Waiting I, for the Winter cold, and the shortening of days, and the silence over
all, imposed by death, and the frozen heart of life and joy.

The crying notes tear my soul, the wailing of babes
crying without comfort, abandoned and alone on the
desolate emptiness of the plain imagined, stretching on
into emptiness and infinity, while the plaintive shrieks
of the dying infants, innocent in this world of simplicities,
life and death, heat and frost, summer and winter, kindness
and cruelty, they rise in the thin air, cutting across the silence
like jagged knives, while the demons scream in the tortured
vaults of hell, the spirits condemned groaning in their agony,
while above the vultures circle, lowering, lowering, down into
the screams of the innocent, newly cast onto the flat plain of
mortality and death, down, their great wings cutting off the sun
as their claws reach down, down to rend and grasp and tear and
clutch; to spill the fresh blood to gush and stream, and feed the hunger
of the earth, beaks rising and falling and rising again, rising and falling,
till there is nothing. Nothing, and nothing and nothing and nothing!!
And yet. Though visions such as these terror my thoughts and whisper
to me in my dreams of the inevitability of death and of the abundance of
pain, of the rightness of grief, yet I continue and yet am I strong, unbroken
by myself, unbowed by myself. And yet. The walls are crumbling. Stones
fall to be devoured by the empty night, while the eroding wind of pain tears
through my mind and casts down the towers of impregnability while the wall
groans and buckles. Soon it will fall. The pain will become reality, blood will
spill out from the black depths of my mind to stain the world, and the vultures will
begin to circle, to fall, to tear. To ****. I will fall. Unless I contain these blasphemies of
thought, these profanities of my mind, I will fall. And death will claim me, and cast
me screaming into the black void of the empty night. And I will cease. That is all.

A man was broken, his heart was sore.
Leaving, he said with backward glance,
to family dear and loathed alike, pain
is good and love is better, both are teachers,
love of life, the finite stretch, the final breath,
spring and winter. But in excess, both are bad,
to drown a soul and leave it dead, one has only
to take in excess. And so I leave you now, gone
am I forevermore.

And he left.

Weary, footsore, he walked the road, and searching
sought for greater meaning, to a life turned suddenly
devoid of reason. He'd thought of epics, of heroes brave,
who'd left their safe and painful lives behind, and gone to
seek a greater quest, leaving at their souls behest, else death
and languor were soon to follow, and the wasted sorrow of
an empty soul. Walking. Alone. Wind like the gentle heartbreaking
breath of solitude and silence forced sighs gently through his
windswept hair, and so dries his skin, in anticipation of the
final sleep, to which all things must go, their time or no, on
this plane of infinite mortality, life and death locked in endless
cycle, revolving again and again. Life and death, Summer and Spring,
Fall and Winter.

Night had fallen. The legion of infinite stars sparkled in the empty night,
and laughed at him, distantly, far away spectators of petty life, they who
observe only, older than the gods whom man has created. It was the time of
Autumn, and so the trees fall backwards down into slumber, deathlike in their
tranquility, while their leaves fall one by one, swept by the wind and smoothing
rain, to scatter about the sleeping world, and crunch as their fragile veins, bones
of the one, of the all, unique and yet not, are sent into the wind, dust in the current,
as the man walks over the cold face of the dying world, the wonders of spent life
alone heralding the earths rebirth, that flurry of life and light and power. But
then, on that place, in that time under the stars, all was still.

Illuminated by the fragile moonlight, deceptive in its enchanting glow, the man,
who had walked the world, saw towering in the distance, black as the void behind
the night, the towering spires of an empty house, abandoned long, left by its unfaithul
masters to rot under the care of the rain and the sun and the ever blowing wind.
The man stumbled across an empty field, littered with jagged chunks of fallen stone,
the shattered bones of that empty place. The man built a fire from the fallen timber littered
there, and so drove back the night. For awhile. For when he closed his eyes to sleep, and laid him down his weary head, so returned the dark and fearful night, and left his mind painted red with blood, black with rage, grey with sorrow. Snow was coming. The man closed his eyes, and waited. Perhaps the shrieking wind would topple that ancient house, straining its
rusted nails, stretching its boards far past all endurance, and the house would fall. The world would fall, and send him screaming into the darkness from whence his nightmares came, to fall there, and become twisted in the darkness, until at last he too would become
one with the darkness, and rise to torment other souls, to guide them down to the darkness,
for forever and for eternity.

The sun rose high, and in that grey and cloudy sky, worked to lift the dying melancholy
from the world, a little. The man woke and, startled, he heard the songs of birds as they
too, rose with the early dawn, and sang their morning hymns to the rising sun. The man
walked out of that charred and ruined place as if in a dream, and so came to stand in the middle of that field littered with the broken stones of that place. Looking, he saw the dew glittering in the rosy light of dawn on the bare limbs of the naked trees, stark in their unclothed beauty. He beheld the yellowed grass, changing from their bone like hue, to a soft and golden color, as to wheat waving in the summer fields, in the bygone days of life and youth. He felt, light, as to the seeds of the dandelions floating on the breeze in the sweet months of spring, light as if he were the light, and so thinking he looked down and perceived
the golden grass, and closed his eyes. And yet! Glory of light, of heaven, of all glorys, he saw the grass, saw it brighten to shining brilliance as the world took on its true shape to him, he, blessed with the power of sight and light and peace at last, respite and tranquility from the seething dark. But no. He was rising, falling up, up into the empty nothingness of the blue and hollow sky. He tried to will himself down, tried to fall there, but he was nothing, a shadow made of light, and the light was taking him, taking him, merging with him, transforming him into the light worshipped and revered by all those who lived in peace and feared the darkness. And yet he was afraid. And as he passed into the light to suffuse the earth with his young and glowing light, his last thought before the end, was that it wasn't so bad, not really, at the end of things, at the end of him, to illuminate the world in light and nothingness.
It wasn't so bad he thought, as he passed, to be a star.

The rage that's in me is hard to describe.
Welling up, it roars inside, and whispers
softly in my ear, " to think's a common
innocent deed, the act of cowards, of fools
Of folly, to act's a different sort of thing,
a major step, a greater pact, 'tween you
and the devil down below. Act I say, and
take the prize, **** for glory, **** for greed,
take you what is rightfully yours, and
claim her hand forevermore."

I wander, lost. Am I a spirit,
to wander so, sad and lonely,
cut off from the roiling, chaotic,
masses of humanity, and set to
wander, adrift in a brilliant sea,
vivid colors clashing always,
with the ever present void of
Infinity?

You are writing. Yes I am writing. But why?
For the ease of my soul. But why? For the
time spent well. But why? For my own sake.
Father, why do you not spend time with me?
Little son. One day you will understand. The
line of days runs ever on, the sun will mind it's
course, but life is a costly thing my son, and I must
pay its price. But Father, life must surely also be, of
play and laughing joy? Come outside and play with
me, for the day is fading and time is short. Come Father
and play with me, let life be patient and mind its cost.
Little son. You know I cannot. Go and find your mother,
she is blessed with ample time, to stem your flow of
questions, and slow your growing heart. Goodbye
Father. Goodbye, my son.

I am standing,
at once in place,
at once afar,
thinking, love,
my swift flown
dove, I am
thinking thoughts
of you, down by the
rivers edge, where the
waters ran so blue, and the
Stars twinkled down like
angels in the heavens,
when we kissed, that first
time, so near a time, and yet
so far away. I am thinking, love,
my dearest flower, while the wind
comes blowing coldly,
and the mist comes slowly rising,
I am thinking thoughts of you.

I hear the waves rushing, hear them sighing in and
out, with the currents and the tides and the ever present
moon. A salty breeze brushes past, soft and fleeting, as that
last and gentle kiss, before you broke and said goodbye, and
left me standing there, beneath the glowing moon. The great
fronds of the giant palms rub together in the wind, and whisper
of untold secrets, hidden since the beginning, and of the pain of
a lover lost. The seagulls scream, mournfully their cries, echo down
to me, and remind me of the time, when my heart was still fresh
broken, and I wept 'neath starry skies. I am silent now. I am listening.
Waiting for her merry laughter, for her softly padding feet, carrying
her to me, back to me, across the sands of time and grief. I am waiting.
Come back to me my ever-love, come back to me.
Please?

I am standing here, staring into a dim horizon
while the wind sighs past, eternal and uncaring,
bearing with it the tattered remnants of poems,
legion in their number, forgotten and left to fade
away and be taken by the wind. With every step
I make, across this cold and grey place, words
are crushed beneath my feet, their meanings
failing, as they rise and take their places, within
that wind of empty promises, of broken loves and
hollow sighs. I lift my gaze, up from the dust of
my creation, rising slowly and with the grace of
gentle death. I see the horizon there, see it
glowing unconcernedly with the light of a thousand
thousand thoughts, and swaying gently with the
bubbling waves of happy joy, swaying with their
laughter, with their tears and quiet sorrows. We stand
here forgotten, the old and faded words and I, watching
Witt an envy dulled by time and the ever present wind.
We are watching, they and I, as we too, at last are faded away,
eroded by the constant wind, and the hollow sighs of forgotten
words as they rise to join that lonely wind, bleak with the dying
dust of a thousand thousand words, and their sorrows,
as they pass.

I sit in bed, my hair, ruffled and undone, eyes blurry
from lack of sleep, while I wonder what to say. Searching
the farthest depths of my mind, for as far as I can fathom
for as long as I can, I search within, for what to say to move
you, to laughter or to tears, serenity or despair, hope or a sense
of loss, deep within the pit of your stomachs, that moves you to
tears, some shed some not, while you stare at my last and final
lines and touch with your index finger, shaking, or click with your
pad or mouse, a small icon, down at the bottom of your screen,
the bottom of the poem, that indicates so much, that brings so much
joy, at so very little effort on your part, all you who have glanced at my
poetry and, deeming it mediocre, have moved on, even as the lines and syllables of my heart and lessened soul fall from your attentions, and fade from your hearts. I am reaching now, reaching far within myself,
for the courage to spit these words out onto this glowing screen, late at night, with the promise of an early dawn visible on my small clock, green letters glowing like some poisonous chemical, mixed with the sewage of a rotting city and the vileness of all the cruel and hateful thoughts, uttered and imagined by all of mankind, within our short and  devastating history. I have found it. I beg you now, all of you, all who merely glance at this, my desperate plea to all of you, out there in the shifting nothingness of cyberspace, to please, like or comment, tell me my work is ****, and that I should drown myself in the nearest roadside ditch rather than write again, for at least I would know, at least I would feel that my work elicits something from you, and that I at least, am not as great a failure as a writer, as a poet, as I am coming to believe. I beg you now, with all my heart and screaming soul, with all the rage and fury and bitter tears unshed you have elicited from my tired soul, read and comment, and like if you may, for I am tired of being ignored, and of the deep and lonely feeling of being alone and forgotten, unnoticed and uncared for, due to the mediocrity of my work, though my heart were poured into it and my soul spent to give it life. I beg of you. And now, tired as I am, I will sleep, and dream and wake and sleep again, for anxiety and fear. And perhaps this too will go unanswered, unnoticed, lost amid the vastness of cyberspace, glanced at but not read, not searched for any subtle glimpse of meaning I, the writer may have hidden in these words for you and you alone, out of the thousand thousand people, authors and browsers, who may come and, if they deign to glance at it closer, never feel the exact same emotions, and feel the same thoughts as you will have, for you are you, and I am I, and for all our differences, and for all that we may be a world apart, or living nextdoor, we are connected, just as everyone, and everything is , in this world, in this life. Find meaning in that if you will. Ha. And now farewell. I hope that my words will be heeded, at least to some extent. But then, they probably won't, for all the bitter truths and all the pain and rage and fury written here for all to see, for none to see. Farewell.

On the gentle ***** of a green and waving hill, vibrant with the life of spring, flowers fall from the outspread limbs of trees, an ocean in their sound, and fall gently to the earth, soft as a mothers kiss, upon a child's tender brow. The wild flowers are spread out among the grasses, bright spots of changing color, amidst the flowing green, waving in the springs gentle breeze, light glowing through the blades, shining in the sun, the scent of life and growth and change arising, slow and overpowering as the years to come, as ages gone. Underneath the spreading trees, their leaves give shade and succor to those who fear the light and hide from its revealing rays. A fox rustles through the underbrush, coat burning orange, a rushing flame in the green light, filtering down from the canopy above, dim in its softened form. Ahead a hare, leaning down to drink from a cool and quiet pool, looks up as a ray of light, pure and golden, falls from the heavens, as the light of God himself, admitted by the wind rushing, parting the woven branches, above, beyond the trees. The leaves spin and sparkle, sighing also in the breeze, and so a harmony ensues sighing leaves and rushing wind, in that tranquil, quiet place. Dust falling, innumerable motes of glowing light, they drift downwards, minuscule, as snow made all of light, dim and golden,  like the shining sands of heaven, swept down to fall to earth, and dust the earth with heavens bounty, and let its light sparkle for a moment, an age, in the quiet of the world. Far above the wooded hill, beyond the rustling grasses, and the colorful blossoms in their midst, high in the cold of the infinite heavens, and the currents of the flowing wind, an eagle soars, and so in mastery of the world below, the world above, does swoop to take unwary prey, in claws cruel in their curved dimensions, and the sharpness of their edge. But below in the world of quiet peace, though blood may drip from pure sky, and so enrich the flattered earth, all is yet still, and calm prevails, and if blood does fall, sprinkled from the heavens as a cruel rain, macabre in its crimson gleam and scent of severed life, it falls unknown, unmarked, to soak into the warm earth, receiving as it gives, and so is added once more to the cycle of life at the beginning, from which in time new blood will flow, through veins new and delicate, frail with the tender youth of new things begun, and so new life be born from death.

The Light is falling, slowly, as a golden radiance, thick and sweet as honey, dripping from the comb. I lie on bare mountains, and I lie in green meadows, and I dream, dreaming, dreamful, light and life and peace flow around me, enveloping me, as if I sink into a warm ocean, bottomless and calm and deep. My hair lies around me, and as I dream, I in wonderment and full of the glory of all, touch Gods hand, and life around me stills. I in my dreaming, Light pouring down slowly from the bright glory of the infinite heavens, open my eyes and see. And if I was ruined and weary, with death upon me, and my life flying from me, away and gone, pulled away as a beautiful kite might, in some windy spring day, fly from the protesting hand of a child, and soar away over the green trees and reaching mountains of the land, even if all this were so, and the Angel Of Death were upon me, fair hand upon my shoulder, even if all this were so, I would not trade my fate for any, for the light is falling all about me and a light is in the heavens  shining through me, and I feel the gentle pull, of peace and warmth, of tranquility and everlasting light, and I hear the call of angels, singing in many voices, in one voice, speaking in many tongues, in one tongue, and God is there and I hear him, he, founder of all, the God of Life, of Light, of Love. I hear him calling. I am floating now, spiraling slowly, away from all, away from everything, and into something more, amid the everlasting light,
and the sound of stars, singing in the light filled vaults of heaven, and I go, far, amid the everlasting light, and the sounds of stars, divine in peace.

The candle flickers against the wall
and darkly lights the cracks, hidden
in the yellowed plaster, while the light
dances with the shadows, and licks the
darksome panes, with an ember orange
glow. The moon is lifting pale face to the
welcome of the stars, and the sun is riding
low, soon to fall beneath the world, to
rest to shine again. A woman stands there,
watching, lovely in a crimson gown, and
a rose in her right hand lifted to her face,
while her other graces the window ledge,
As she gazes at the rising darkness, and the
fall of the weary sun, letting its rays kiss her,
hesitantly, before the the chill night rises slowly,
and the moon shines down again.
Ah, the pale moon! How lovely she is, white
daughter of the night, rising from the East
I'm her timeless dance, to glide over the heavens,
and retire in the west, yielding to the fiery sun,
as he comes to rise again. The woman closes her
eyes, and sighs, a fragrant breath, scents of
pomegranates, and oranges, and the stately
pear, ride within it, and so enrich the flawless night,
with a second quiet beauty, an echo to the first.
There is Jasmine in the air, wafting with the gentle breeze,
of a summers gentle night. Carried on that midnight wind,
It sighs about the womans face, and ruffles her night black hair.
The dawn is coming, pale light in the eastern sky, while all is dark
before. The woman steps from graceful window, arched with
fluid curves, and closes the window fast, the curtains rustle shut.
she lays her down to gentle sleep, upon a bed of straw. Her eyelids
flutter softly closed to rest, as the sun lifts his morning head,
and bathes the sleeping world, in light and laughing youth.
And so she sleeps, as dawn does rise, and men begin to stir,
for she is born of gentle night, and to night she does return,
but fearing the strong and burning light, she hides within her
little room, and sleeps the day away. For she is Jasmine, subtle
sweet, no lilly or blazing poppy. And she is happy. Content with
the night and the starry sky, and the softly watching moon. Content,
and lost, and all alone.

A frozen wind is whistling, all through the starry night.
snow within it, it howls along the frozen paths, of the midnight
winters winds, beneath the moon, and thousand lights.
The trees are whispering, dead leaves soon to fall, they voice
their last and final breaths, before the fall of wintertide, and
the stunted length of days. I sit and watch the evening fall,
and the leaves gone one by one, spinning down to frozen earth,
at the beck of the winter winds. I think of how I sit here, the how,
the where, the why. Why am I here, sitting and watching the death
of another year, quiet all about me, none beside me, while my age
rises from its restless slumber, and pronounces loud, my own mortality,
and the shortening length of days. Snow is falling, sound beneath the quiet,
adding depth to the empty silence. The snow falls all around, and blankets all
in pristine white, and a mantle of heavy quiet, beneath the clacking of the hardened
branches, and rustling of leaves, dead and doomed to fall, beneath the moon and
thousand stars, and the weight of early death.

Raindrops are
falling, tears
benign, falling,
from a winter sky,
and the mass of
windswept clouds.

The wind is
sighing, in
a winter sky,
and the grass
is softly waving,
the birds that
came are gone
again, with many
a piercing cry.
The silence reigns,
my dearest heart,
the reeds are softly
rustling. The smell
of pine is in the air,
why do you yet cry?

I am awake, at this ungodly hour.
Fragments of a dream forgotten,
fall through my clutching fingers,
like sand on a windy day.
I scrabble frantically at myself,
the dream was important, it
was! But to naught. For in doing so
I but stirred the wind to greater speeds,
and swept the sand away. I fall back,
head cushioned by folds in a wrinkled
blanket, and a pillow wet with tears.
I stare at the slowly spinning fan, air blowing
like a soft spring breeze, to still my racing
frantic heart, and dry unnoticed tears.
I stare at the spinning fan, unseeing, uncaring
of the gently comforting breeze. I know in my heart,
my secret sanctum, my quiet place, alone, that 'twas
no happy comedy, no carefree summer dance. A tragedy,
close at hand, is what had come this night. As I fall,
gently, down into the realms of sleep, I remember, a last fragment,
spinning aimlessly on the cusp of that void, forget. Flashing it
fell, but I caught a sight, a fleeting glimpse, of the tragedy held within.
Ashes floating, still lake beneath, and the muted, trembling sound,
of the womens stifled weeping. And the stars were all alight, shining coldly,
down from the black expanse, and a winter wind was blowing.

I am watching,
watching here
alone tonight,
watching as
The clouds float
by, and the night
goes whispering
past.

Watching you, asleep tonight.

Quiet. It is so very quiet.
The sound, not quite silence.
Rather, like a heavy snow fall,
it adds to the hushed quiet, and
so creates a larger, deeper silence,
vast as an icy sea, small as a single
snowflake, falling from a cloudy
sky.

Dead leaves
are falling,
like sighs
from a winter
sky.

I sit and think, of times that there were,
Of wind sighing in the leaves, and
The sunlight golden on her hair.

I look back, through the mists of time,
and I see the starlight in her eyes,
reflected brighter than the non-existent
moon.

I look back, on times of yore, and see there
a wall, old and crumbling, darkness seeping
in to poison life and joy, with the quiet sorrow
of half remembered pain.

I see her there, remembrance, turned cold and bitter,
Lies beyond those frozen gates.

They tell me to leave her, to go, to forget...
but how, when we stood there, her voice
smooth and quiet as liquid moonlight.
How, when I played for her, her tears
as shining jewels, precious, in their transparent
light.


How, when her voice, turned sharp and bitter
as broken glass, tore at my soul, how, when her voice,
broken now, and hoarse with the force of her screams,
whispered to me as she lay in my arms, blood red as holly,
warm and terrible as remembered love, remembered folly.

How, when she asked if I loved her, still, at the end of things,
even as her life drained from her, and her heart slowed its weary
work, and stilled beneath her pale breast?

How, when she had to ask, when she should have
known, the answer always...yes and yes.

An old house sits in the deep-wood heart
of the ancient forest-fen.

It's crumbling stones fall farther 'eryday into
the appointed state of sad decay.

But why?! For does not the hope of man rest
upon 'ery brick atop another, on 'ery cottage,
'ery palace, 'ery shack in misty glen?

For these are the  bricks of civilization, my dearest
heart.

So shore up the trembling walls, prop up the
rotting rafters! For do we not, in this one act,
prop up our tradition, our civilization, nay
very lives of the People?

But no. For see the climbing vines, creeping insidiously,
through the mossy stone wall? See the mildew on the rafter
beams, the fungi on the hearth?

We all go to the ground, whether man or beast, or stick
or stone. Whether tree or shrub or mistletoe, we all go
back to the ground.

I am old, my sweet, and I fear the day's not far,
when my lids slide closed,(or don't, who knows?)
and I'm walking Deaths cold halls.

I beg you Rose, my sweetest flower, don't put
me in the stone. Just bury me the old fashioned
way, in dirt and rotting leaves.

For I couldn't bear, to be buried there, in the cold
And crumbling stone.

"From dust I came, and to dust I shall go, at the end of things,
or at least, at the end of me."