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.

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.

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.

In a city, future past, and the
streets are cold and clean and flat.
Naught living, none dying, a ghost town, way down the way.
Except.
Except for a lone *** of clay, sitting on the sill, of a cold and sterile building, way up high. And there lies growing a small plant, glowing green and red in the morning sun. Growing, growing,
growing still.

I saw her there, standing in the shade
of a thicket; birch trees in the failing
Autumn. The long grass caressed her;
the wind stirred her hair. Lovely she, in
the failing Autumn, there, on the cusp of
winter. Lightning; storm on the horizon.
Green eyes lifted to catch the rain, falling,
there in the nearing distance. She breathes
in, out, her eyes fall closed as she tastes the
air; rain and soil, sunbaked in the past heat of
the noontime. Grass, wafting upwards. The
trees stir; the shadows of the leaves flit across
her form, face uplifted to the rising storm. Her
raiment snaps, back and forth; the winds uprising,
howling forerunner of the coming storm. Her hair
streams back, a midnight pennant, running out all
behind her. The roaring of the winds upsurges in its
splendor, its howling crescendo reached at last; The trees
bend, backwards in the gale, graceful in their dying,
leaves torn and scattered, out among the plains, and
across the rippling woodlands, soaring in the ecstasy of
the winds. She stands, there, in the moment before the
storm, straight she is, and tall, swaying as the trees wherein
she stands, pale in the twilight. The wind howls in wanton
abandon, wild and glorious; rain strikes the waiting earth,
the grass bends in homage, down before the torrent
descending. The lightning cracks in the darkling sky,
the thunder roars in violent time; the storm falls
in the failing Autumn; darkness comes
in the clouds obscurity, ebon in the raging heavens,
and all was lost there, save the wind, and the rain,
and the darkness of the storm.

Long
the falling
rain;
let it fall
and
wash away
my sorrow,
that I
may have
peace,
and not
weariness
in the
times of
my grief:
fall,
rain of my
soul.

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.

Sun shining,
kissing the falling rain,
ripples in a rainbow pond.

Willows,
their hearts are sore,
hair trailing in the clear water.

Sunset,
My heart and I,
alone with our thoughts
and the sighs of the willows.

Heartbreak,
an old sorrow, dulled
by the years and by beauty
and by pain.

Now,
Sharp as shards of
shattered glass, the pain returns
as rollers breaking, over
my life and the span
of years.

And all is grey,
as sand in an ashfall,
as the corpse of a flower, in
the small morning light; as her eyes,
framed in tresses of midnight black,
skin dark and cold as Stygian ice,
as I close them, and kiss her,
once, for memory, twice for
love, a farewell, by the
shadow of the
grave.

And I left her, to be buried, alone in her grave.

And I wept, there, by the pool, in the glade, with the sighs
of the willows a consort to my sorrow, under night and
the light of the stars.

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.

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.

I walk through the valley of darkness,
though fear besets me, and a darkness is
In my mind, for my dream is there, shining
like a morning mist, far away, set in the unreachable
horizons of my belief. Unreachable, though I struggle on
through all the troubles and tribulations of the world.
Because I must.

So I go on, on through a gauntlet of fear and doubt
And pain. For though I suffer, and though I die,
gasping, sprawled on ****** ground, the stones
hard beneath me, it would be enough, at the end
Of things, to say at least, that I tried.

Yes, at the end of things, when life is bitter
and death seems sweet, it would be enough,
to say, that I tried.

There, at the end of things.

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.

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.

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.

The man strides to the marching
drums, blood hot for the boiling
fray, beside him marches kin and
friends, comrades all for the ******
fray. On roll the marching drums, pipes
skirl and trumpets bray, all to the sound
of stomping boots, all to the waiting
fray.


Now, hark to the trumpets sound,
loud and clear in the morning air,
foemen sighted, foemen there! Out
from the town exceeding fair. Now
comes the faster beat, and comes the
sound of running feet, as men roar with
joy and fear as they rush headlong in
the morning clear, as they run to the
speeding fray.


The man lies on the trampled ground,
and listens to the wrenching sound of
the groans and screams of tortured men,
dying there, on the ****** ground.


Away above, beyond the clouds, and over
the buzzards circling, there through a shining
rent, the man near death a vision sees; an eagle
high, balancing, above the fates of Lords and
men. As his dying breath escapes his lips, and
darkness comes to take him home, the man
hears a distant sound; the eagle calling down
farewell, down to the twisted, ****** fell,
above the loud, tumultuous roar of men
survived from the ****** fray, crying all in
joyous voices, "Victory! Victory!"

Bittersweet the memory.

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.

A glade in a wood,
gloaming in the
twilight. The scents
of nightflowers, subtle
and disturbing, contriving
to surround us in
heady confusion, as
we stumble through
paths enchanted, there,
in the shimmering
moonlight. There, as we
walk our ways, under
stars, under moon, in
the darkling gloom.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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...?

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.

Wandering,
eyes staring
into vacant space,
sight forgotten,
within the illimitable
vistas of my mind;
utter beauty.

Possibility, the hope of
adventure, of experience,
of sweet, blissful solitude,
mystical enlightenment...
connection with myself,
with the divine, with
love...my eyes well
in racking ecstasy.

Calling, that dream of the
soul's unfettered flight,
solitude calls to me;
long seconds, minutes,
hours, years, spent in
reflective thought,
and meditation...
Peace.

I will leave the lands of
my childhood, of my
rearing, of my absorption
of near pointless
knowledge. I will leave
the lands of comfort,
of familiarity,
and inner stasis.
I will leave
and post myself, watchful
upon some peak of
majesty and beauty,
and fulfill that
calling in which my
soul lies
forever lost,
and of which it has
been said,
requires little of body,
or of mind; but
of soul, much.
I will go.
Do not follow me.

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.

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.

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...

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.

We walk through life,
blind,
knowingly,
and not;
willingly,
and not.
We see the
world,
and let it
pass,
unremarked,
taken as
a fixture
of eternity,
for the
most part.
This, is not
the truth.
The world
is not a thing
of diamond,
not a thing of
light, or
of spirit, wholly,
although it is
all of these
things,
in part;
It is also an
earthen world,
a fragile world,
a beautiful
world,
and one which
we are quickly
stripping of
its beauty,
and its life.
Our world is
dying, and
we are the
cause.
But, there is yet hope.
There is still
time, to
turn back,
to leave behind
us, all this
pain, and
desecration,
and soul-wide
apathy;
there is yet time,
but not for
much longer.
Therefore, I
charge you,
all who read
these words,
and feel them
within your
heart,
change.
Now.
Revitalize your
lives,
revitalize
the world.
Every action
has
significance;
think, before
you act.
I charge you,
do this
thing,
for yourselves,
and for the
world;
and I swear
to you, before
God, and
all the infinite
immutable
and yet
ever-changing
light,
of eternity,
there is yet time.
There is still hope.
the world will
change,
and flower,
for all of
time.
I promise you.
It will.

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.

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.

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.

Grass waving, green on the hillside.
Sunflowers sighing, faces turned to
the light, yearning always. Leaves,
and the grace of the boughs, dancing
in the wind; the trunk is still, standing
tall, as a pillar in the dappled green.
Rain. Rain for the lakes and the trees and
the ponds. Rain for man, and for the flowers,
and for the robin bird, there upon its
perch. Rain and the light of day. A Break in
the clouds. Light shattered, sent in an
arch of shimmering color, and day birds
singing, while light in golden shafts returns,
to grace the patterned forest floor, and to kiss
the waving sunflowers, and the blades of
shining grass.

Rain falling, soft in the misty dale;
the sun is hidden in the even of the
day. Violets and poppies, lilies and
lilacs, all fresh with the rain; life
bringing, cool in that time of the
colored evening. A wind is whistling
in the towering trees, setting the leaves
all to sighing, and the branches to
their sway, but naught of that but a fleeting
breeze comes down to rouse the nodding
blooms, and stir the grasses from their
stay. Night falls, with the winds dying,
and all is still in the sacred dell, save the
insects, and the rain, and a nightingale,
singing softly in refrain, poet sweet, in
the falling rain.

Mind, heart,
Separate,
One without
The other,
Longing;
Longing, and
The other lost,
Steeped in
Illusion;
Lost,
Without
Compassion.


Truth?


Duality;


Suff­ering
Perceived
As pain;
When
Accepted,
The teacher of
My heart.

I sit and dream, on better days,
when the grit and sweat of life abates,
for a moment, for a day. Dreaming I lose
myself in fantasys, love and laughter, they
comingling, with the dark and the dying and
the twisted boughs in the forest under shade.

I love, in days of peace and dreaming, to brew
a *** of peppermint tea, and bringing it up
to my place of seclusion, up among the rafters,
Sit me down and breath the sharpness and the spice
into me, way down deep, and let it turn my dreams
to twisted imaginings, all hued in red and white and green.

They say I'm delusional, when I speak of the things
of my dreaming. They call me antisocial. They are
right. They call me different and strange and freak.
They are right. I know it's wrong, and it justifies all
that they say. I know. But it just gives me a thrill to
watch them froth with rage, the madness in their eyes,
The spittle quivering, hanging from their writhing lips
as they mouth their hatred, in gruesome obscenities.
It makes me laugh a little, inside.

And then I turn and walk away, bored of their hate,
and continue on my way, dreaming, already dreaming,
as I continue on my way.

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'm walking alone,down the long
street, midnight the moon shines
high, a pale moon, and wan with
the sickly light of the thousand
thousand city lights jewling the
streets and lanes and alleys of the
great city so prettily, seen far off,
a conflagration of multicolored
stars brought to earth, shining amidst
the vast lonley dark of the plains in
the night under the stars and the
pulsing moon, like a great halved radish,
red around the edges, from drink,
from laughter, from the lack of sleep
and the joy of the knowledge that
everything exists and that we are alive
right now and roaring, yelling up under the
madly glittering lights, circling circling,
all around us over our heads, and now the
most awful roaring of sound and of
smell and of sheer surging drunken glory
and then black, and the sleep of the abandoned,
of the holy ones who live raw and free
and mad and idioticly, wild in our sheer
shining distinct lack of soberity, and of the
great rationizer, common sense be ******
and sleep until the shine of morning comes
dawning over the horizon, and shines in our
eyes and makes us cry out, and up to the
business of the day, to the long mad glorious
trek onwards, ever onwards, and all a great mad
comedy of life rovolving around and around,
and on we go, on, on till death do us part,
sweet love affair, the road and I and us and everyone
apart from the masses, crazily determined,
singly in our passion, to walk and love and
sing and yell and drink under the moon,
not a care in the world, and on and on and
on and on, till death do us part, my dear
projected love.

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 sometimes dream, when I am on the cusp
of waking, and sleeps warm embrace has
loosened, that I stand upon a cliff, overlooking
the vastness of the sea, and behind me is a plain,
stretching to forever, and above me the gulls wheel
in patterns and intricacies I had never before imagined,
and they call to me secrets gleaned from the wind, and the
clouds, and from the waves below. They tell me tales
and legends, and they speak of the lives of the fishes, and
the voices of the whales, and of the meanings in the skies.
And when I wake, and I am daunted by the troubles of the
day, I remember and am comforted, and journey through days
struggles, on the promise of a soft tonight, and of the calls of
the gulls, and the music of the sea.

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.