My ship has been beaten and battered, the hull has had enough. I am tired and weary, the seas have finally found their calm. Long has the voyage been but now I need to rest. Through many storms I have sailed longing for safe harbor. Now on the horizon I see the lights of a new city and my final port of call. So with what little strength I can muster and with the last drop of faith that is in me. I unfurl my sails as I feel a soft gentle breeze blowing at my back. Onward I go as the hull cuts through the calm water, I see the lights getting ever brighter as a new dawn seems to be breaking from an unknown place. With quiet resolve I set my rudder amid ship and head forward, as I get ever closer to the bright new shores, I can see images of people I know, my eyes now grow heavy as if I am entering a dream. The troubled waters of life fade away as I finally make land fall to the lights that have been calling me home for so long.

(A note:  in this poem, the authors write alternate stanzas.)

FREEDOM

has always demanded
my surrender to an instant in time
surrender to fate and therefore
to glory

Though my wily will
has oft gotten in the way
with grand illusions and the necessary
fiction that I am in command

But in the end, it is command
of nothing and no one
for that is the nature of time,
mean shrew who prunes our hopes

A clock that does not click
nor clang, but flies tirelessly; one day
its talons will ****** us away, releasing us
forever, from the burdens of the day

And until those burdens take flight
I carry a candle for the hours, open a book
for the days, and teach my trembling hand
to hold on to hope.

When one was never two
And the reverse doubled
Becomes positive,
I remember links to an
Abandon page
And the effluent nature
Of the voice,
Spoken at odds at the edge
Of yesterday.

Where have we gone,
The soul is A tired old man
Forever told in a web of time,
Take this away,
Numb the years gone cold
In a river one ends
And begins in the sky's
Tearful rejoice.

That I took a deep breath
And found a complicated
Sigh;
I often wonder of the
Two existences,
When life can smile
At death's birth.

When  you  are  young.
The  village  seems  only
one  field  away.
You  can  skip  it  in  no  time.

Middle  aged  it  feels
two  fields  away.
And  is  getting  a  bit  
of  a  bore.

When  you  are  old
it  seems  like  three  fields
Almost  Impossible  to  walk.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK.  2017.

atop the glistened mirror top
where the sky projects on this mirrored  surface
clouds and limitless
floats a small girl almost flower like
lotus pearl white arms pirouette
a flowered world on a
polished pond a vision
of graphene serenity
stronger than anything
like looking at melting suns
starbursts and signatures
of Greek gods acclaim
la fleur so small
grandiose
beauty stemmed
perfectionist
floating proud
independent
an image
glowing
sincere
just there

There's a ghost in the machine
A distant heartbeat
An echo
A recollection of tides pulled by the rhythm
Of the moon
A lunar cycle
Of leaves swirled
And now settled
By the whisper
Of the breeze
A message repeated
But not audibly heard
Remembered and understood.
You are in the right place
Where you need to be
All you need now
Is to breathe and be.

My melancholy,disquite muse,was the one
Who taught me to empathize with,beats of
Waves, moon lit nights, mermaid songs
Whale whistles of lovelorn moments,
Heartbreaks ending failed love affairs
That haunts the hearts like unmitigated thirsts.
She walks me through the garden path,
Taking my cold shivering hands
            ....in her warm trembling palm...

I see the young blooms fallen from
The lap of the vine, that held them close,
Fondled with such affection, showered for a lifetime.
I see all of them,trampled over,crumpled in the dust.

The withered flowers on bushes we pass,one by one,
They look lackluster  in the crushing
Harsh sun, my muse who refused to speak all along,
Now has teardrops rolling down her eyes.
She makes my crusted ice cap collapse, I melt
Not being able to look at my heart broken by beloved.

I look around for a bud or a sprout extolling hope
A young shoot softly whispers,"Life is here, in wait"

as the Nightingale sings
so a poets silence
as deep as the black Universe reigns.