The white-horses of the mind,
approaching the shores of the body,
never, ultimately, reach their destination
but break and disappear
leaving time's waves
to slowly erode
our animal allotments.

Slate,
brittle
and chipping away
at the edges -

like
growing
old!

Sadness is fear slowed down
so that we can observe every facet

it is a stillness, a little lucid dream
the looking at the look of our own face
in the early morning

fear is the pain
the dance turned to  chase, the story turned speech
the blindness perpetuated by not allowing a blink

sadness is the scar, that even later
when we release our hard-won anecdotes to our children
we nurse still in secret.

it is the lack of turns and edges,
the feeling of gravity strong,
but mysterious and without center.

you breathed life into yourself
and carried the footfallen dirt
of your third world into this first one
knowing that the timbre and reluctant pace of your voice
will always be more revealing than the fingerprints
you bring on your brown hands,
the color that you hide in your pockets,
masked in a new heritage
that shines a light on petty and trivial pleasantries
instead of humble,
this now-useless thing you had remembered to keep

and because of this, you are left wondering
what else is there to do
besides hard work and simple devotion,
besides abandoning your old ways
and accepting this false heaven,
besides mastering the microscope words
and regurgitating them when the right ears are listening

and no matter how hard you try
the line that separates the color of your palm
from the back of your hand
will always be obvious.

the x's on the black board
are the marks of experience
erased as the class empties

the board is nearly a blank slate again
but with faint traces of a previous life
the touch of many hands
leaves an indelible mark

the board would recollect its many roles
at the end of each day if it could
impartial to its use but glad to be free

my face is marked more permanently
frown lines now bearing down on my mouth
from both sides and above

the blue and purple bags under my eyes
store the sights that I failed to act on

I am aging
falling from the peak
whenever that was

From the outskirts of the town,
Where of old the mile-stone stood,
Now a stranger, looking down
I behold the shadowy crown
Of the dark and haunted wood.

Is it changed, or am I changed?
Ah! the oaks are fresh and green,
But the friends with whom I ranged
Through their thickets are estranged
By the years that intervene.

Bright as ever flows the sea,
Bright as ever shines the sun,
But alas! they seem to me
Not the sun that used to be,
Not the tides that used to run.

DEVEREUX FARM, NEAR MARBLEHEAD.

We sat within the farm-house old,
    Whose windows, looking o’er the bay,
Gave to the sea-breeze damp and cold,
    An easy entrance, night and day.

Not far away we saw the port,
    The strange, old-fashioned, silent town,
The lighthouse, the dismantled fort,
    The wooden houses, quaint and brown.

We sat and talked until the night,
    Descending, filled the little room;
Our faces faded from the sight,
    Our voices only broke the gloom.

We spake of many a vanished scene,
    Of what we once had thought and said,
Of what had been, and might have been,
    And who was changed, and who was dead;

And all that fills the hearts of friends,
    When first they feel, with secret pain,
Their lives thenceforth have separate ends,
    And never can be one again;

The first slight swerving of the heart,
    That words are powerless to express,
And leave it still unsaid in part,
    Or say it in too great excess.

The very tones in which we spake
    Had something strange, I could but mark;
The leaves of memory seemed to make
    A mournful rustling in the dark.

Oft died the words upon our lips,
    As suddenly, from out the fire
Built of the wreck of stranded ships,
    The flames would leap and then expire.

And, as their splendor flashed and failed,
    We thought of wrecks upon the main,
Of ships dismasted, that were hailed
    And sent no answer back again.

The windows, rattling in their frames,
    The ocean, roaring up the beach,
The gusty blast, the bickering flames,
    All mingled vaguely in our speech;

Until they made themselves a part
    Of fancies floating through the brain,
The long-lost ventures of the heart,
    That send no answers back again.

O flames that glowed! O hearts that yearned!
    They were indeed too much akin,
The drift-wood fire without that burned,
    The thoughts that burned and glowed within.