That day was bitter cold
As the light fled the sky
The wind left streaks in earth
A depth of silence
So deep
You could hear love die
And the silent tears of the heart
Autumns passing bittersweet
And the gentle dreams of dying things

The first newspapers had to be chisled out by hand
with a chisle and mallet.  Not exactly the fine print
we get today.  And if the chisle-er made a mistake,
then that piece of stone would have to be reprossessed.
This would cause a delay in production and delivery.
Another drawback was that those stones were
heavy.  And no matter how greased your cartwheels,
the donkey could only pull so much weight.  However,
if you were lucky enough to get a copy of The Evening
Stone, (at the price of only three dracmas per slab) you
would have a piece of news that could literally last
longer than a lifetime.  (pardon the alliteration)

                                                The End

some say we should keep personal remorse from the
poem,
stay abstract, and there is some reason in this,
but jezus;
twelve poems gone and I don't keep carbons and you have
my
paintings too, my best ones; its stifling:
are you trying to crush me out like the rest of them?
why didn't you take my money? they usually do
from the sleeping drunken pants sick in the corner.
next time take my left arm or a fifty
but not my poems:
I'm not Shakespeare
but sometime simply
there won't be any more, abstract or otherwise;
there'll always be mony and ****** and drunkards
down to the last bomb,
but as God said,
crossing his legs,
I see where I have made plenty of poets
but not so very much
poetry.

flock to the jhil in December
the birds from the snow

merry goers catch them on lens.

some travel that far distance

like peafowls and hens

tasty with salad cucumber

end up on plates

adorned with spice.

some have a fate that's more nice

brought to the market
sold at high price

so they live grow up in age
with the sky ever beyond cage.

a few of us not knowing why

fall in love with jhil bird's eye.

Inside time,cold broken love.
Memory knows my face these days.
The ****** years are passing like leaves on the wind.
Today my hearts spring,gentle dream.
Tomorrow feel the light and hope they stay.
The evening circle has fallen.
Whispered poison of fading joy.
Sweet past things gently dying,
I return there where she was buried,
Lay the Lilly on the grave ,
Then turn and walk away.

I was lost,
Never found.
Deep within this winter ground,
Its always cold ,
Where no light is found,
Broken empty hearts,
Lay all around.
Tears that fell ,
The wind that howls,
Through standing stones,
With words writ on them.
Like he was home,
Our little boy went back to stone.
Or she was loved,
Though she died to young.
our fathers here,
And we still do mourn.
Or mothers warmth turned to stone,
Yet weep no more for we are home.

~               The light shines in the old window
                           Near the silent meadow
                      A crack runs through one pane
                       And the wood is dry and aged
                 See the motes swirling in the beams
                    That stream through the window
        There is a photograph though nearly faded to blank
                       A dog a boy and his parents
                     No one knows who they where
                            Yet they look happy
                      It seems they found life here
    But it has been many years since this cabin has known
      The sound of creaking as feet move across the floor
                     Or of children playing in the yard
               Its not but grass grown tall and rampant
              Slowly returning the house to the ground
      On the lee side rests a grave that once was carved
    But the wind and the weather has worn it nearly gone
                 A nexus of life grown bereft of man
                       Yet it seems no worse off
               Its going back from whence it began
         Yet still the moonlight fills the window at night
                   And dreams it dreams it dreams
                              Men come and go
                               Yet earth abides

~                   The moon is high
                       As children cry
              Away within their slumber
                    On mares of night
                  That bares the blight
                     Of goblins gleam
                   And wicked things
                  That creep through
                    Your cellar door
                    A creak on stairs
                  The wind out there
         Sounds like a thousand hands
                    Of darker things
             The ones you don't let in
      Are watching through the window
     With crimson grin and glowing skin
      They'll scratch upon your window
                 But Their out there
                    As your in here
                  So close your eyes
                    And bundle tight
                     For you my son
                     I say goodnight

~                      Where have they gone
                When you wake in the morning
         Forgetting they are lost to me as i am lost
                   Only ghosts and memories
               Picking fragments from the sand
       Trying to remember who i might have been
                   I know there will be dreams
                  Even though they have gone