Through the light lanes,
Through the dark lanes,
Through the paths beneath
the sky, I wander,
And the sun a *****
Brilliance in shadow,
In the blue-green-brown speckled
Beauty of her Eye;
Revolving, revolving in ad infinitum,
Dancing in a
Faery dream..
Will she blink?

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 and hear the desert wind, sand hissing past,
winging by on the deserts breath. The moon hangs
still above the earth, enshrined in vaults of darkest
black, an infinity of stars to frost the sky. I sit here,
on the shifting crest of a tall and windswept dune,
contemplating the majesty of starry sky, and the silence
of the desert winds. My mind empty, wanders, and I
seem to hear, in the howling of the desert wind, the yipping
cries of jackals, and a strain of music, faint and thin, riding, on
the whisper of the desert winds. I look and see, a palace, light
shining from many windows, and colored pennants, whipping
in the desert breeze, spices seeming, rich and dry, waft around
me, caught, in the twisting zephyrs of the deserts breath. I stare, and
slowly, the sounds of the palace reach my ears, women laughing, singing, and the lilting tones of music strange and wonderful, lift me
from the desert sand, and set me forward, stumbling from fatigue and
thirst, towards that place of light and sound, a refuge surely from the
stinging sands, and the whispering voice of the desert, dry in its susurrations, as an empty skull, bleached and hollow, sockets set to the
contemplation of the desert winds, dessicated remnant of mortal man, till wind and sand consign it to the deserts breath. I stumble forwards, eyes locked on that vision held before me, and I, with all remaining strength and speed, run towards that deserts dream, and in my folly, I
strive for speed, even exceeding the desert wind. At last I halt, and in my weariness, stumble against a mighty gate, set with gold and jade and onyx, moonstone high, and amber low. I set my hands to wondrous gate, but lo! the gates are fast and strong. They do not yield to the feeble push of weary traveler, nor to the entreaty of dry and sand parched throat, imploring it to stand aside. I fall at last, defeated, and thought, to die here, before these gates of opulent splendour, would not be so tragic a fate, as the deaths of thousands, lost as I in the immeasurable vastness of the desert sands. But yea! There in the darkness of night as I made my peace with God and his angels and consigned myself to the inevitable fate of eternal rest, that near unnoticed, the gates swung voicelessly open, and through it I inhaled weakly, the scents of anise and cumin and cinnamon and allspice, all mixed with the intoxicating perfume of the daughters of the desert, scented waters and mulled wine. I reeled, dazed by the glory of light and sound and scent. I was lifted then by gentle hands, soft and cool, with the featherlight touch of sweet virginity. I fell, spinning, into the cool dark of grey oblivion. I awaken, rested, in the dark. Birdsong wafts in through arched windows. Below, I can hear the women singing, talking, as their needles clack in unrelenting harmony. And yet, this all seems to fade, to become less real. I listen harder, and yet, I hear instead of the singing harmony of before, the lonely song of the desert wind, faint and yet as if it had ever been, and this all some fantasy, imagined dream more true than life? I open my eyes. I lie there, back pressed to chill stone, jutting up into the heavens. The scents of man dissipate and are gone, replaced by the dry and whispering aura of the lonely desert, faint sage upon the wind. I close my eyes. falling, I slide to the cold sands and lie there, waiting only for death to take me, that I might once more approach that vision of holy beauty that awaits those that live and die in piety, and with the grace of heaven. A hand touches my shoulder. I do not look up. The hand remains, insistent in its immovability. I rise, slowly, turning, so I might see my unknown companion, with me, in the heart of the windsept sands of the great expanse. A man stands there, robed in white, black veil obscuring all save for dark eyes, set deep in his weathered brow, like jewels of onyx, set in a dark and seasoned stone, left to the desert, in years gone by. "Come. It is time" The man whispers through the desert wind. He beckons me, fingers set with jewels and stones, gold thread belts his waist. He turns and walks silently, out, towards the eastern sky. I follow him, seeming vision of guidance, sent to set my feet on the path of life. I follow him and yet, gradually he fades and is gone, vanished, beside a weathered stone, lonely in the great expanse. I fall to my knees, head bowed, strength gone from soul and body. I hear dimly through the haze of weary enervation, even as death enshrouds me, the trickle of falling water. I lift my eyes. water pools before me, gift of life, sent by spirit of guiding thirst. I drink and life within me lifts its head, water streams down wind partched throat, and even as I fall into cool oblivion, knowing that that vison of heaven awaits me, water soothes me, as I fall at last into darkness, and the shining vision of heaven around me, I close my eyes, darkness enshrouding, as I perish beneath the moon and frosted sky.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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'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.

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.

The leaves have fallen, the trees are bare,
snow is falling, gently swirling, in this Winters wind.
The birds are silent, the air is still, no song to lift a sluggish eye, or warm a frozen soul. I walk alone through silent streets, braving the snow clad wind, and the icy winters chill. I walk, breath frosting out in icy patterns, crystallized, hanging there, for fleeting moments, before they fall and float away, borne away by a gentle breeze, an icy touch of soft farewell. The leaves are spinning, ahead, behind. I walk through, scattering the subtle patterns of wind and leaves, to create a swirling maelstrom of snow and wind, left to find their way in the evening dark of winters day. I see her face, in the brittle leaves twisting in the breeze, and in the icy snow drifts, piled against a winters tree, features soft and crystalline, illusion drifting from place to place, born along by winters breeze. I watch her, unseeing eyes shifting, seemingly, from place to place, movement of these subtle snows. I watch her, numb, my eyes pinned to that illusion of wind and snow, a subtle torture, amusement for the gods delight. I watch her, hands straying, falling, reaching, questing fingers searching, finding, clasp that chill uncaring steel. I raise my hand, white and cold with winters frost. I see her. I know her. I am lost in this winters chill, grief and pain numbing me, stilling me, my heart is cold inside my chest. Fingers white, frozen, hand numb, rises, cold steel shining in frosty light. I am frozen, still, eyes fixed on shifting snows, her face still, sightless eyes hold mine, transfixing me in frozen space, eternity held in sightless eyes. I see her. I see her. I....know...her. She smiles gently, eyes soft on mine, black hair stirring in gentle breeze. I........see.......her. She sees me. She sees me. I close my eyes. I know her. I.............know.........I see..........I see her sanding there, pale, smile frozen on icy face. Waiting  for me, alone, cold with the chill of uncounted winters. Waiting for me. I go. Goodbye..........I.........am.........going..........My frozen heart waits beyond, still, numb,....waiting. I am going. I am filled with love and loss and grief and pain. I am going. Do not.....mourn.....do not.....grieve.....I am going, the winters lie heavily, a frozen weight on bleeding shoulders. I am going. do not.......mourn me, for I go to peace and a frozen heart.

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."

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 sometimes walk down a crowded street, buffeted by a river of humanity, and fantasize in my walking, from here to there, what it would be like if people just moved slower, thought more, danced more, loved more. I'm dreaming I know, a world fit only for the realms of sleep, this what I have imagined. And yet....I can't help it, walking down a frosted side walk, cars speeding by, snowflakes falling to melt against my coat, and sending a delicious shiver of cold, a sensual chill, that travels up my spine to exit through my lopsided ears, and steal a ride on my steaming breath, out into the cold from whence it came. I'm walking and I'm dreaming, two lovers kissing in the snow, oblivious to those who pass them by. Why can't I have that, why can't I gaze into anothers eyes the way they're doing, and realize in that moment that we would be together forever? Can't I even fantasize about it, dream about it, in idle moments between the strains and hardships and petty coincidences of daily life? I sigh and walk on, brushing past the cluster of people, standing in the way, gazing with longing and envy at what those two had found, together, in a snowstorm, in between the bustling, ordinary, regular, and boring moments of daily life. I look in through a store window, at the blurred and fuzzy television screens, snow swirling up there in the wintry breeze, and wreaking havoc on the broadcasting towers, away over there. I know I don't have time for this, for staring idly at the wintry sky, and the blurred, nonsensical images on a set of fuzzy TVs that someone forgot to take inside. I sigh and turn away, glance at the time. 6:15. Work would start soon, a dreary start to a dreary day. Maybe I had time for an espresso, quietly in a corner, in a crowded Starbucks, full of other people like me, trying to get warm, to find a quiet corner to sit down in, amidst everyone else trying to do the same thing. I'm walking again, turning a corner, brushing by, people like eddies of water, swirling around me. I can smell the Starbucks now, can taste the coffee, stale now with the dry and unexcitable feel of countless repetition. I stop outside, and try to remember the first time I entered this Starbucks, how it felt, how it tasted. What was the atmosphere like, was it any different from what I feel now every time I go in?  And what about the people, were they always so quiet, so reserved, huddled in corners, alone or in small groups, never talking, never greeting, never standing, till they've finished their coffee, and have to then, and go out back to their work, whatever it may be? I stand there, for a while, only slightly aware of the passing of time, the tick tock of the countless clocks and watches spinning endlessly around me, all day every day. I stand there and then reluctantly conclude, with a sigh and a shake of my head, that the Starbucks in front of me, all it's scents and tastes and it's muffled sounds, all the atmosphere of the place, was the same as it had ever been, and it was only me that had changed, becoming as much a part of the atmosphere, of the feel of the place as anyone else in there. I found that I was walking again, my steps slow and heavy, and that before I knew it I was inside the place, with all it's smells and tastes, and slight, unconscious sounds exactly as I had recalled them to be, as if to reinforce the unfortunate conclusion that I had just come to. I sat down and ordered my usual, a ,mocha without the cream, and two bags of sweetener. I watched the waitress as she moved off, laden down with orders and trays. I watched how she walked with a smooth and hitch-less gait, a perfectly neutral stance, meant, I was sure, to support her ability to be nearly invisible, when she wasn't taking your orders, or walking by. I sighed and sipped my coffee that had sat there for a while now, as I had considered what the smooth and nearly unconscious movements of the waitress might mean. I regarded her for a moment more, and then turned back to my coffee, and became once more a part of the place, it's atmosphere reflected in me as it was in all the other customers, standing or sitting in the room with me. I finished my coffee. As I rose and tipped the waitress, my thoughts returned once more to my unrealized fantasies, my waking dreams, idle and counterproductive as they were. I was outside, walking again, the cool snow accustoming my face again to the chill crispness of that winters day. I looked up and saw the Chrysler building up ahead, lit up with its thousand lights. I looked back down again, down towards the ground at my feet, watchful for a patch of slippery ice, the practice so ingrained in my nature that it was without thought that I did so, scanning the side walk for any treacherous stretch of ice in front of me. And as I did so I failed to notice any change in direction, or ambiance, so immersed was I in my bleak thoughts. I looked up and found myself far from where I was supposed to be, and with five minutes left for me to show up at work! I cursed once, and then sighed and turned around, searching for any familiar landmarks that might show me the way back to show up late for work, and hope I wasn't going to be denied entrance because my boss had just about had enough! This had happened before. Finally, yes there was the Chrysler building, glowing, a giant among many. I was preparing to head off to my inevitable scolding, and probable discharge, when I was stopped by a hand on my shoulder, small and warm, a woman's hand. I turned, slowly, very aware in that moment, of the average percentage of muggings that occurred in this part of town. I would have been prepared, at least to an extent, to have found a gun aimed at my face, or a knife, low, so as to best gut me, if I should attempt to flee. I stared in shock however, at the small card, with a phone number, written in an elegant scrawl being presented to me by a perfectly lovely woman, dressed in a black overcoat and crimson scarfe, standing in front of me with a smile on her pale face, framed by red locks, shot through with streaks of bright orange and yellow. The girl with the flame colored hair, presented the card to me and said, "Hi! I'm Christy." I simply stared at her for a moment, then at the card. Then," Madam, I think you've mistaken me for someone else, my names Dave August." She smiled even wider, showing strong white teeth, and replied," No I haven't. My organization is doing a charity program, and I thought you looked like you could use some company. We're having a dinner at 10:30 pm on Sunday, December 15th, and we've been instructed to invite whoever we feel should come. Think about it, okay?" And then, before I could react, she had pressed the card into my hands, and was already, halfway across the street, walking quickly, and with a spring to her step. I looked after her, and then, slowly, I smiled. Perhaps I would go to this dinner at 10:30 pm on Sunday, December the 15th. Perhaps I would at that.

I look out the lonely window, misted in the mornings cold.
I see shadows, grey and formless, out there in the sleeping
world. Still sleeping, on this grey and quiet morn. I wonder
why I feel this way, why I hate the noisy, bustling day. Why
I prefer instead, to stand here, alone and cold, and draw
pictures in the condensation, gathered from my steaming
breath. My melancholy is my oldest friend. She sits there in
the corner, content to stare, wordlessly out the misted window,
and fidget with her hair. I wonder why I have this life, why I
am not instead, a tree or rock or distant star, burning coldly,
out in the great expanse. Or even a flower, violet with the
shade of twilight, here only for a brief while, a second to
The Infinite, and then gone, blown away like chaff upon an
Autumn wind. I wish. For I am like the quiet breeze that
stirs the grasses, and raises the heads of sleeping flowers, in
the cold of early dawn. I am like a shallow pool, clear for those
with eyes to see, still as a translucent mirror, set upon those
tiny waves. People glance my way, and then continue, on
with their vibrant lives, so full of light and color, determining
in a passing glance, the frailty of life I hold, no threat, no pain.
As easily extinguished as to blot a word of faded ink.
I sit here, my melancholy by my side, hand upon my shoulder.
I wonder if it is not time, to seek some newer fresher place,
like the violet in her time. I wonder if it is not best, to leave
this faded world behind, and just....go. To leave and seek a
better clime. For after all, what's a word of faded ink, too
grey to read, so light as to be barely seen, but a thing, not far
removed, from the clean expectancy of the white beneath.
Awaiting only a ready brush, and ink, near at hand.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

I walk through the pouring rain, wind howling at my face, tearing, my hair blows in the wind. The rain streams down my youthful face, aged now, with grief and pain, rain like tears, falls from empty sky. I walk through twilit streets, dim with mist and rain, and I wander, lost in daylight dreams, a haze of visions, enshrouding me, embracing me....her touch soft on my cheek, her gaze gentle, and yet strong, helping me, guiding me out of the howling storms of my inner mind, her whisper warm against my ear, her tears hot, mix with mine, as she whispers, her words full of love and quiet strength, even as she weeps, quiet tears. I fall into dark oblivion, lulled by her caring words, and the soft and gentle sounds of her weeping. I am walking. That, a distant memory, gone, shattered into a million shards of brightest glass, her screams mingle with mine, her body cold on empty street, the wind howls, leaves whipping past my pale face. I hold her, tears streaming, falling, her life bleeding out, trickling, slowing....she draws in a ragged breath, tongue poised for words, eyes desperate, pleading. She dies, breath sighing, slipping, back, into that cruel Autumnal world. I fall, head cradled against her chilling breast, blood slowing now, stopping. She is cold against me. I scream, world uncaring, carries on, and I alone, agony cold in my chest, I fall into the deepest black, her screams echoing after me, down into the dark of sleep. I walk, the rain pours down, the wind cuts me, chills me, dank hair falling, I walk alone, and empty, of life of love, of joy of peace.
I walk, and that empty pain, bitter as the dregs of cheapest wine, roars up, a storm once held in check by her love and gentle tears, strengthened by newer loss and fresher pain, it wells up, and I scream, ragged and tearing. I fall, knees scraping, stones stabbing, mud and leaves pulling, reaching, for my weary soul. I weep for pain and bitter grief, the storms roaring, within, without. I look up at cloudy sky, grey and empty, rain falling like bitter tears. I fall, limbs failing, heart quailing, beneath the empty, bitter pain. I lie here, amidst the mud and leaves, rain whipping past, wind screaming, I lie, consumed at last, by grief, cold fingers squeezing my screaming heart. I lie here, and wait for death, and my beloveds gentle tears.

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.

My soul is like that
of an ant, of an
elephant, and
the summer storm,
my soul is like that of an
aeroplane, of the
starry skies and the
rushing tide;
my love is like that of the universe,
boundless, illimitable,
eternal in the womb of light,
I swim in the seas of nothingness,
and marvel at the beauty
of all.
My passion is like the air
before the storm, like the
lightning, like the thunder,
like the breath of life
that lingers, after the storm
has gone its way.
I swim in a sea of madness,
of love of hope, of
mad despair,
Mad! Mad!
For I know now
what I knew before, what
I've known forever,
'neath the wrap
of illusion, 'neath
the shroud of
pain and fear;
that love is all, and eternal,
and we are all
One,
in the starry dance.

Oh, I know that
love is all, and with us,
and we are One,
in the starry dance.

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.

I waltz across the tiled floor,
lit by a thousand lamps,
and the chandelier above.

Gold between them, those tiles,
black and white, they chime as
you dance, your hem of lace spinning
as you twirl, a fantasy made incarnate,
if only in the realm of Dreams.

I spin you low, I lift you high, your
face shining, eyes bright with laughter,
wide with joy.

We dance, back and forth, across gleaming
tiled floor, graceful as a pair of swans,
one black one white, spinning slowly
across the floor.

And then faster! We leap, we spin
we twirl in each others arms, gazes locked
feet moving unguided, dancing, spinning!
We pant and we laugh and we leap, and we
swoop, like the dance of swallows in the
living, laughing, dancing time of Spring.

And we dance. And all to the hidden
music of a thousand violins, a thousand
flutes, a hundred cellos, a symphony to
reach the angels in their singing and
set them all to listening in awe and wonder
of the power and grace and joy of the music
of man.


And we dance. But at at last the music
slows, softens, falls away, slowly, gently,
and we, spinning, spinning, slowly,
softly fall away. Our hands reluctant part,
our feet slow and are still, ceasing their
complex patterns of step in and step out,
of the leap and the twirl, of the flying spring
and the swooping fall. At last our feet are still.

And we part.
I watch her go, fading, fading.

And I realize it was all a dream.

I walk alone, out in the vastness
of space, heavens vaults, darkness
leavened by the brilliance of
unknown galaxies, and the far off
light of distant stars.

I am alone. lost in this eternal
field, of dark and light, black
and white, and all between,
shining, eternal light, to shine
forever, and bathe heaven, radiant,
in its undying light.

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?

But why, if I am here, are not others?
Where are they? Is space so vast, am
I to wander endlessly, lost in the void of
eternity, to be at last at peace, but to have
none others to share it with, none to join me
in my wanderings, none to acompany me
in my eternal journey, none to make it "our"
instead?

And what of Katerina? What of her? Is she here
wandering also, lost and alone even as I am,
enduring the silence of space, alone unto eternity
and beyond?

Or is she some other place, doomed to
eternal pain, locked away, to scream
unheard, save by her tormentor, some
thing of darkness, created from
the blackness of infinity, immortal,
set to guard the way to heavens bliss
the angels dying, falling?

Or is this all, this vast infinity, souls
doomed to wander forever, never
meeting, never crossing, alone
in solitude, forever and for all
the infinite centuries of eternity,
alone?

I wander here, lost for countless
years, stars vanish in heat and
light, whilst I wander, spirit
cast off, set adrift to wander,
centuries come and go,
while I stop to listen for
some imagined sound,
some human voice,
heard but unheard,
the darkness eats my mind,
while light replaces it,
with thoughts of
eternity, solitude and
bliss, together forever,
I and eternity, set to tread
alone through space, from now
until the end of Time.



I am alone, and I wonder,
perhaps, I am not
alone, perhaps I do not wander,
but instead set my feet to the path
appointed me. For perhaps those
stars were not always stars,
those nebulae not always so,
gaseous and vast, but instead were
souls like me, journeying only
to meet their ends as light and
gas and rocky spheres?

Perhaps, I shall know,
perhaps I shall see,
later amidst eternity.

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.

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.

I look back at all I have written, all I have seen.
I think it was a good life, I think it has been well spent.
Kindness and joy, mixed and intermingled with sorrow and regret.
I like to think that I have seen both sides of the spectrum, if not to the extremes,
men burned and broken, for listening to their dreams. I have seen joy and heard laughter,
witnessed the happy innocence of a child with both joy and sadness, for the knowing that it will be taken from them. Ah, for life is a cruel experience, and though joy is in it, and laughter, and peace, and innocence too for a while, for a year, for a day, this all is mingled and mixed, interwoven seamlessly with sadness, regret. With the melancholy of a still winters morning, on a cold winters day. For one cannot be without the other. Or how else could life be? Could the joy of a raindrop falling from a grey and cloudy sky to splash against ones face be truly appreciated, if one had not first to experience the long, hard years of bitter drought, and the women's wailing cries in time of famine? Or could the joy of innocence, total and pure, be recognized for what it was, if one had never lost it? This is the balance of life, yin and yang, universal and eternal, for if it was not, how could we exist at all?

Shifting, sand underfoot
and the moon bent
in reflected splendor, up from the sea, and from the
tresses of your hair;

black, in that time
of dreaming.

The stars,
innumerable in their glory,
wink down at
us gently as we walk,

their mysteries
disregarded.

for in your eyes
lie the sum of
their light.

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.

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 grasses, 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 fury of 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.

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.

Human,
lost,
amidst
endless strife,
without,
and within,
mind
turbulent,
confused,
despairing..

Yet, there is still
light;
there is still
peace-
there is still
God.
I will not despair.
I will love,
I will laugh,
I will cry,
I will sorrow,
on; for I
will not
forego
the sweet, pure
joy of
life,
not without
a fight.

I will live,
and I will
be happy;
I will not
despair.
I promise...
I promise
you.
I will not
despair.

For there is
joy, and peace,
and love,
in life; and
there is eternity,
which is
everything,
embodiment
of all good,
all joy, all
love, all
innocence,
and purity,
within this
life, as well
as the next.
All I must do,
is find it.

A girl I once saw,
and her eyes were
green as the grass
in springtime, and
her face was soft,
innocent,and fresh,
and yet her eyes were
cold and distant, and
in them were distance,
and an apathy to swall-
ow the world. She was
broken and harsh and
silent and alone.

And I loved her.

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.

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 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.

Take the thistle
seen by the roadside
that is remarkable
in your eyes above all
for its color, and for its
solitude, and set it in a
*** of good soil in
your house, upon
the window-sill.
There let it sit,
day in and day out,
crown turned
sunwards, and its
leaves outstretched.
Guard it well
from those insects
that would
devour it, and
give it water,
once per week.
Hold it as a
***** friend,
as a child,
before whose
passing shall
leave the world
descendants
many times its
number, that the
likeness of the
thistle be always
kept in memory,
and in time.



Here, and in such things,
is found beauty.

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 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.

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 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.