After the battle
Flaming fragments fall like snow
Like glowflakes

once
i sat alone at a civil war battlefield
in a picnic shelter
at dusk in the fading light.
i sang old songs
to amuse myself.
my voice is not golden
but there was no one
to annoy.
i noticed
at the far end of the shelter
the faded out shape
of a man
standing
and then another
and another.
there must have been
a dozen in the end.
i suppose
it had been
a goodly number of years
since the old soldiers
had heard a woman
singing.
i sang all the old songs
i knew.
the sound of a car
and headlights
diverted my attention
when i looked back
the company was gone

clouds unwind
bring winter
in their white breath
dissolve and murmur
to the sea-sombre skies
of the scurry of wind
and wave
of the tumultuous
ache of the night
its oceans
its impenetrable
depths
its shore-slumbering
lights, in the thick
folding of winter
mist
the wonderment
of cloud.

If I am kindling,
you must be the spark...
Much alive in the darkest dark,
lifting all shadows with
finesse and flair.

     If I am flame,
     you must be the air and wind...
     Unfettered and free...
     Cradling my infancy.
     Only to nurture and inspire,
     to groom flame to fire.

If I am faltering...
And almost extinguished,
you must be the hand...
Bearing the confidence and belief...
Awaiting the moment most opportune,
to align yourself in rhythm and tune.
So we could...
Continue to
burst forth into light.
So we could...
Resume our journey forth with might.

     Let us be our own deterrent
     from the darkness
     that comes with morrow's set.
     Hand in hand, we must...
     Because together...
          And only together,

   we're...

                        incandescent.

People come here and they eat,
satiating their tongue
to me, it seems like a never ending repeat
of an eluding trance song

I do not complain
for every time he wipes me clean
soaking my tears, healing my pain
leaving behind some ornamental scars

There are others also, like me
of different shapes and size
in apparent harmony with no common goal
we just pick up the chatter and claim to be wise.

The lamps glow, in the dark a vibrant rainbow
for an evening, light up my mundane life
the soft wind, makes the chime cling
ostentatious beauty, made for some heart to zing.

Even when the breeze dries, be happy, eat and drink
to connect to your heart I will always be here
the lonely candle will again light up,
and you shall find your much needed cheer.

our immovable dance
threads  the great canvas
of no thing
made of and by
our knowing  
the carrier of sound
stretches
by love
and plays
lights and shades
along the
ever changing curls
of a velvet universe

---

if there is two
it is not even at two separate
ends

but a base of being
for and of
each other

we cannot say that
for each one of the two
there is a sense of two

when one is not existential
without the other
then the other is not the other
but the way for the one to be  

selflessly

then one sees one
then one knows one

Love

one love to one love
like a sheet of purple gaze

flows along
and permeates
one another

it is the dance of grace

in between the two
lies the universe

for they balance
as ever distincts
the sparks of
the tale of things

ah pure love within itself knowing the other
ah pure love source of all divine dance

spans

the carrier of creator’s subtlety

the sign of all creation  
living on its own
– apart from its creator

we hear inside

---

silence of
the vacuum
omnipresent
as one sound
-but not a thing-
permanently
enlightening
nameless
it remains

*
in a wisdom
where
time cannot
be traveled
as long  as
time is defined
to create
time

A symphony of woodland imagination , Sycamore trees that mimic the forlorn's indignation .. Persuasive River Birch's cover quiet brooks , compel the fragmented light crossing the waters surface between moss covered stones , Honey Locust armed with their crown of thorns , instruments of the Passion stand majestic as regal Live Oaks command the high cliffs above the swirling tributaries confluence and utter confusion ..
Pan awakens the creatures at Dawn with the song of whippoorwill and Mourning Dove . Helios sets the floor aglow , Redtailed Hawks deliver their morning anthems..
Angels walk freshwater streams without question , forever charged with unfolding the tapestry of divine creation ..

walls of smoke          
ghost girl
floating

the small hours
dance to the song of
the moon

placed on a
wooden coat hanger
the satin clouds of the dark.