Back Then.

There was for us something so holy back then
in that lovely OtherWhere.

We found out-spoken feelings consolingly
warming and care became real.
Raising our faces to preordained fate we
found bliss within dreams.

There was something of glory about love in
that wonderful OtherLand

Absorbing out-pouring from duel openness
we took hope and believed.
Joy must have re-cloaked all heaven with
our beautiful secret.

Ever was lasting and Now was unsinkable.

Happiness followed a daily routine as Hello
impacted twin-souled contact.
Born then contentment with intimate rain of
reflective close pattern.

A state arose where death was unthinkable

Satisfied moorings meant patiently waiting
until change altered lonely.
Exchange of anticipation balanced each taste
of our myopic throne.

But health unexpectedly hit rocks and sunk.

As I paid the Boatman my coin of acceptance
mourning wept oceans of grief.
Sudden wrecked notions of OtherTime and
struck reality in raw hysteria.

Storms of aloneness drown reason and clung.

Yet different horizons within saline's fall gave
never-moreness clearer vision.
Wait would not be outgrown but tears which
recede can reach appeasement.

Scars back then were eventually fleshed over.

Conciliation accepts calmer seas if heartbreak
makes enough concessions.
Future togetherness in a new OtherPlace will
prove better without an aggressor.

There was for us something holy back then in
that treasured OtherWhere

and will be again.

With sun already flaring behind
furnace doors ridges
of cloud turn scarlet, reddened
by glow cut through
dusk's entrance to slice fine lines
into porcelain sea.
With portent of ebony so deeply
embedded in darkening
dome lie unburnt crimson coals
settling on evening.
With handsome day vanquished
in an eye's blink I see
not one last glimmer in twilight's
present foreboding, for
night proposes clapping in cuffs
the near dying sun
and Ol' Sol must yield to his cell.
Seagulls reluctantly whirl
with haphazard simitared custom
as dark gulps with intent
to blanket in murk birds' descent
then frowning day, sunk
sulkily sudden, I wending home
see rising a milky-white
moonbeam sending pale kisses to
light first star and I smile.
With the next dawn sides will roll
out the changes once more.

Julying Ripeness.

Oh what rounded succulence lies
in the swelling belly
of tree-filling apples surprisingly
girthed overnight.
Each plump world of green-juiced
abundance readies
itself for hide, fur, feather, human
or worm consumption.
Turning to sun for reddening stain
they begin to cascade
from creaking branches over-laden
with Julying ripeness.
And I look for a wind-fall to chance
biting into sour-sweet
rind before horses or starlings clamp
jaws or beaks to crunch
and stab at orchard's juice-filled drop
of easy bounty or
before autumn's damp sheds the crop.