From whence you came, oh specter bright
Allured by sin, this troubled night
The haze of which, its solemn mask
Brings a fate, A fearful task

Upon life’s meager soul I pray
Replace my aura, black to grey
For though I lack an inner light
Allow the grey to seek the white

My poet’s soul I hear it said
Has only words of doom and dread
This be not true, I take to task
If love is all, you needn’t ask

I have all that's required for a loner’s life
One set and nothing more
A heart that’s given and received not
One soul, true to its way
On path’s that show no bearing
Passions without servitude
And still with desperate moments
I cling to my loneliness in the company of strangers
With great joy, if you can call it that.
I marvel at the quietness of the autumn night
Whose passing I will mourn
As mist gives way to snow and snow gives way to grief
Will there be no one to share my wonder?
This is what they call the hermit soul

Arise from autumn meadow
The days last thought
Of you who chose a path
Not measured or guided but sign less
And yet, you walk with purpose
Resting in unfamiliar territories
Aware of the incongruities of your route
And still, you had the vision
Earlier years were fraught with ambiguities
And muddy trails made for slippery ramblings
And then, you wrote a poem
Your heart found its medium; and soul, its pen
You write with depth in a shallow sea
How magnificent life is, when our path is clear
And the autumn meadow allows for one more thought

A windswept chill cuts to the bone
Wave and whirlwind play upon each other
With determined gait, I walk to Author’s Ridge
Syncopated volleys of half frozen drops
Released from the heavens
For are we not in the company of the enlightened
Resting peacefully; Alcott, Emerson, Hawthorne, and Thoreau
I take breaths of frigid Concord air
And fill my lungs with hopes of inspiration
But fallow is my spirit
And then,
Trickling drops of frozen rain, finds a path down my naked neck
And there is planted a seed
And a poem
At Author’s Ridge

The vastness of the summer field
Has lost its innocence to autumn yield
From whence the green has turned to brown
A once joyous day returns a frown
But with spring’s planting, revived and healed

Refrain oh urgings of wanderlust past
My sails have lost the wind, on teetered mast
The hearty bellows of a nor’easter gale
Has caused my depth to weep and wail
And fear the evil my spirit amassed

I am a farmer’s soul; born to seed and harvest
A reaper of words, and mortal darkness
I seek from all around, and all within
And dream of a life that might have been
Where love past is all but heartless

Encapsulated in time,
Refusing to release me from its clutches
Only to relive all my imperfections
Over and over and over again
Time is a perplexing thing
Moving forward and still,
We are trapped in the moment
It ravages the beautiful
And turns us to dust
To quote from a wise old sage,
Is to speak the obvious
For we are all a wise old sage

Catch the dying truth
That moves a thousand miles a second
To seize what is, or what should be
Concealed from view where all can scrutinize
You see the sky; I see the stars
You feel the earth; I feel the pain
How can you explain the Universe?
Is there no draft that can penetrate your mind?
Closed to apostasy
Open to dogma
And still you insist that we are new
That Intelligent design is tried and true

And the dying truth is that I too, am fearful
Of what lies beyond the silence of the mind