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

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.

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

In summer,
I used to run, and
curse the heat. And swim
in the cool waters of the pond.
No more.
For the colder months are coming in,
and winters knocking on the door,
with summer shuffling out the
back. And I welcome old
winter in.

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

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

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

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.

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


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


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


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

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

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.

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

I stare, down into the
indigo darkness of the
sea. Land is far from me,
and horizons darken with the
mass of storms. Alone I wander,
and land is far from me, alone
in the gloam with the sky and the
sea. Light shining in the darkling
depths, heralds of the raven night,
a storm is brewing and day is gone,
and land is far from me.

I wander on.

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.

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