my icicle mind is frozen in time,
i see rainbows in snowflakes
and sunshine
in raindrops,
searching for puddles
never easy
to find.

black night path
took a turn
to the dim dull
low weak
orange glow
of the lonesome lamplight in the street below,
where the shadows hid
and the graces slid
and the hat of the martyr
hung on a brick
held by mortar
by the hook
and the handle
and glory sat
on the other side shining in the humble halo
of a rumbling light.

there's a river running by the meadow
next to sinner's
grove,
where the hobos huddle
in a freight yard place
and trip on tracks
and fall from grace,

I can't help thinking
where the serpents shudder
the angel stays

I can't help thinking when I was a boy,
a pocket full of flowers
meant a pocketful of joy,
and the  river by the meadow
had a gentle smooth flow,

I can't help thinking
where the serpents shudder
the angel stays.

these these morning yawns are drawing on,
to wake up now
to sweet birdsong
a rare and scarce occasion
as the body ages
and the bones
become thin
fresh as a daisy has to pay the day's wages
before a trickle
of strength is let in,
the droopy eyes,
listless sighs,
the walking through treacle
of waking up time. are drawing on,
to wake up now
to sweet birdsong
a rare and scarce occasion
as the body ages
and the bones
become thin
fresh as a daisy has to pay the day's wages
before a trickle
of strength is let in,
the droopy eyes,
listless sighs,
the walking through treacle
of waking up time.

out there
where they wait to stare good eyes blind,

crocodile style he scans
the surface,
hidden
from the eyes
of his persecutors,

out there
where they wait to stare good eyes blind,

beneath the ripples he stays
below radars
and the mad world tested and tried,

out there
where they wait to stare good eyes blind,

in his world of water
he glides
unnoticed by the unaware,
camouflaged,

out there
where they wait to stare good eyes blind.

a mirage, a shadow that disappears with the fading light.
All that you hear about me is inconsequential
For he who truly knows me cannot speak about me.
The me that you see is irrelevant
– For I’m not what you see,
I’m much more and a lot less than that
Anything you know about me is obsolete
– I’m ever-changing,
morphing into forms you cannot fathom.
I’m not where you search for me,
I’m not what you wish me to be.
Cry all you want, laugh while you can
Despair, lose your hopes and question your faith I will still remain the enigma that I am
For better or for worse.

Though my soul may set in darkness

it shall rise in perfect light,  

for I have loved the stars too fondly

to be fearful of the night.