Six AM this
chill morning,
I bear witness
as a single maple leaf
floats to earth.

Winter prepares
to keep her
infallible promise
once more.

  ~mce

Out of the depths I cry to thee...*

wake into difficulty
from lovely sleep
of night's negation

to news from the
bird world sung
and insects that know

what finds its way
early into this
familiar room

two of gloom mornings
in glued sequence

sunrise of grey
clouds scudding

of light opaline
through windows
diffused

are windows only
worlds of open

is rain a form
of loss

and truth but
power moving

all melts and
can be replaced

the soul sinks

a day of grey
makes a day
of blues

death spiral
         of the spirit

when did I
become so weak
against the intractable
what is of daybreak

cruel the new has
become

and terrifying
and
continual effort

time not a friend
as clocks threaten
actions untaken

the mereness
of mortality
disappoints

sand mostly gone
to the final
hourglass' bottom

distance incomprehensible
away a way which way

each day a fainter path

fading notes of
unstruck chords

save me from

this cruel unwritten
poem of morning

this syntax of unbidden
meteorology

oh lift me up
and desire
make young

break my human fall

beauty and joy
cannot be sundered

we live by grace
or not at all

allow me survive
what must arrive

for every broken
poety fool

that famous final
Day of Decide

By the rivers of Babylon,
there we sat down,
yea, we wept,
when we remembered Zion.*

See them, a file,
a line stretching
dusty and torn
rearwards to
that distant time
when first men
invented war.

Run they do not,
but plod like cattle
praying to leave
behind torture,
interrogation
genocide and death.

This line has never
been severed.

It is a living beast
that bleats for
place and peace
finding welcome rare,
finding arms folded
and bolted gates
that sneer coldly.

So easy to look away
and pretend there
will never come a time
when we join that line,
when the gods
of war and fortune
turn their backs
to us and home
becomes only a
forlorn memory
and we too are left
scattered scraps
in a tattered file
extended eternally
backwards across
the sullen heaps
of history.

  ~mce

~            ~           ~
Affectionate was
your way
of letting my
worries disappear. . .

How you put your arms
tight around my shoulders. . .

How tender your voice is. . .
whispering words of comfort
into my right ticklish ear abalone.

Believing in me. Lovingly. . .

Your ocean of whispering
sounds. . .Wavered Deep,  
deep love conection. Our
    
Free symbiosis
enhanced by French
parfume, evaporating
from my occiput fragility.
~                  ~                        ~

held up in suspension
just beyond my senses
experience out of body
without any defenses

my mind starts to travel
awakened by the sound
secrets start to unravel
and my senses come around

the sound of perfection
the voice i hear repeating
upward in direction
my soul and sky are meeting

in a glimpse of a moment
a home for the drifter
under the breath of an angel
within a saint's whisper