as childhood slips through our fingers
like sand from a broken hourglass
we tighten our grip and try to keep
all the remnants we can grasp
and as every piece slowly vanishes
we look up to see how others fare
judging superiority to establish order
if we could steal from our companions
we would not hesitate to add to our pile
but that has been neatly *******
so that we get nothing for our trouble
though we may lose a friend meanwhile
it would be nice if we could realise
the hourglass is not destroyed
and if we could only see it truly
then we would see that this obsession
with gaining what we cannot hold
is a troublesome mythology
because we are seeing upside-down
the glass of time may be running low
but only because eternity is filling up
and as time trickles away wisdom proves
the things lost are nothing
compared to the things gained

every poet the world deems great
has written an elegant legacy
dedicated to himself
tallying all his wisdom
as he glorifies in his shame
he decidedly exalts his ego
and spreads the infamy of his name

so my muse, accept my invocation
as I write myself into epic proportion

collecting the vast library of my life
I eagerly fold back the cover
of the first volume in mint condition
but as I open it I learn astonishment
every page shines in unblemished white

in my fearsome excitement
I **** each book carelessly off the shelf
tearing pages and breaking spines
as the discarded books crash to the floor
and when it is completed all I have
is a pile of broken futures
and only a slender volume represents
the object of my reckless search

this book now my chief treasure
I sit down at my cluttered desk
to incline my ear and listen
and discern what material is worthy
for inclusion in my great work of art
but I am shocked to discover
that the pages hold insufficient promise
except the whisper of future possiblilities
which I have just hurled into dust

in the grand tradition of yesterday
I must finish in the same way I began

every poet who has written
a heroic tale of self
has exausted all his wonder
and reduced his life to metred lines
the good things are all gone
and all that remains is bleak and empty
when seen in the light of dawn

once she could think well; the world catered to her call
no monsters hid under piles of newspaper over warm grates
the street was a black river, not an interruption of being
strangers sold tainted chocolates; the apocalypse was being lost
but she revolted to the wrong road and saw a flash of color
as the landscape came with thoughtless clarity
alice could never resurrect a deadened neverland
true utopia was reclaimed and found to be in reverse
the rosy view of a negative came in three-by-five prints
although she discarded knowledge and journeyed to kansas
her eyes could not forget the lure of exquisite babylon

sometimes i just--shut--my eyes
think of what could be
a brief instant of mixing--reality--
fantasy--
wings melting i crash--into the sand
the waves washing wet--over me

the sun is too--hot--hot hot
i can carry the fire--up
but i cannot put it out
in all my ice i cannot **** the sun
so i am building a castle--a sandcastle
with parapets and a gated moat--

i knock it down with a crash
destruction was my primer-book
cynicism my blue-backed speller
so i lock myself up--in my room
pretending to be named emily
in my flawless white dress

the old nickname e.d. is transformed
until i remember--myself--
i am not a doll
and i--am not--afraid
the world can be--irrelevant
i will not abandon life

****** half-hatched into reality--
lost in a foreign land unknown
a sojourner who has lost--the song
peregrine with a misplaced home
the repressed truth will arise--
i will find the beginning--in the end

i fly back up--fire in my pocket--
bid cheerful farewell to the sun
good day to the beach-grains
rebuilding the--castle--
it is only--sand--
and i let it stand

life is reality--what took so long
and life that is really happening
is better than supremacy unlived
and i get lost--in omniscience
looking--skyward--realizing
i am a--grain--of sand

One day I shall leave this earth
and mourn not a whit its loss,
for though this world is fair indeed
on the far shore is a land more glorious.

I look with pleasure to that day
and beg it come without further delay,
yet I live here, this moment, this hour
where time is quick and swiftly gone.

As the Father has not yet seen fit
to call me to my home on high,
I travel this terrestrial terrain
working whilst I wait.

we grasp at every slender thread
    that dares to promise immortality
if the old man was like us, he would be
    the victim of our murderous duplexity
certain that an earlier yesterday holds
    the wonder of what we seek
yet when that day was here, it was scorned
    in favor of a newer, later week
we embodied the desires of today
    recklessly ignoring the tick-tock
but now, too late, we realize
    the most merciless of all is the clock

I only pass a moment here
a stitch in the pattern of time
I only contribute a measure
to the poem one small rhyme

although at times I seem
content with this world's view
I await something higher
I'm only passing through

I am waiting for the day
I can entirely cease to roam
and coming to my family find
I have finally come home