Time is not a capricious thing
It moves in one direction
A locomotive with momentum
As tangible as air or the vacuum of space

Don’t dare to control
Or change its route
Its destination is an unknown
But its presence is felt

Childhood will defy its endless course
The old will curse its surface effects
Time is a nemesis that considers not
A harbinger of death and is unabashed

I strove to cease its protracted motion
Rousing early and then to bed, gleaning thought
Consuming every earthly moment
Keeping every reminiscence in irksome detail

The passage of time is my enemy and savior
Yet I revel at nature and its indiscriminate design
And how the phases of the moon does not deter and
Times movement does not slow for the bees or the hummingbird

For the sands of the shore, time is eternal and uneventful
For the youth, time is measured by the day and year
For me, time is measured by the second, hour, day and year
For the Mayfly, time is a day

I cannot effect its movement or demeanor
Yet it affects mine
The unmovable wall
That desolate and weeping journey's end

It’s called self-fulfilled prophecy.
I control my destiny, but I don't have direction.
I’m called a failure, but by what measure?
The cards are not in my favor.
Who will judge me?
Fate is not a comforting idea,
It has a formality that lacks purpose.
Why do I fear it?

I wake at midnight to the shrieks
But silence is all I hear as I sit up
Where are the screams coming from?
My wife doesn’t hear them, she sleeps soundly
But I heard the tortured howls not from this earth
I am afraid to fall asleep
I am afraid that this is an omen
A precursor to death
Is this what souls hear before they die?
Or is it my soul that wakes me so wickedly
I ponder what the soul is
As I fall in a deep sleep
And again, I am ****** awake
But now, I know the source of this unearthly moan
I gently touch her shoulder and ask that she sleep on her side
The wail of a snore can rouse the immortal soul

There I stood, cobbled together of flesh and blood
Raptured only minutes earlier, now in despair
Words that take seconds to think and speak
Cause years of pain and destruction
Accept that I am not without blame
But why are words not meant,
And not easily retractable,
Incapable of evaporation
Like a broken man’s tears

I don’t want your salvation
I just want your understanding
The streets I walk are empty now, filled with regret
The sky is overcast with despair, thundering its agony
I have no memory of our dreams anymore,
All flushed away in the remembrance sewer
I feel so alone
If you continue to embrace my state, you can expect to be disappointed
My expedition into the underworld is well trodden
If it helps, I’ve overcome this journey before
A whiff of jasmine and sandalwood has stirred me before
A bright autumn day or a brisk summer breeze
Has been known to pull me from my the subterranean vault
And yet I have always expected another return spree
Always anticipating and strangely joyful
That this will be the last trip
And I will finally find the peace and quiet
Of the vacuum of space

Why must you wait for me
To rise above this endless fog
You wear the word martyr
like a bejeweled badge
Awaiting your ticket tape parade
I would gladly hide in my labyrinth
A careful construct of limitless emptiness
Illuminated by the new moon
I stumble through and through
Hoping for a quick exit over the cliff
But as usual, I’m sure footed

There is no room for you to wait
The fog is growing ever murkier
Although destitute of happiness
I can feel its presence forever in a memory
This is one thing that can be called hope
So there; some promising words to cling to
And know that I am not hopeless

A silhouette, dark and hopeless
Casts a heavy shadow in my mind
A ragged edged sword
Used for mutilation,
Begs to be released
But beyond all hope,
It is stilled in its hopeless scabbard
Death of a friend, averted

Her entrance, like viscous molten lava;
Has that effect
Careless words torch a path that is easy to chart;
That can affect

Approach her from the east
Straight on
But at your risk
The lioness’s heart is not always numb

Her back is always turned to the gentle wind
Away from her peril
She will not shudder to your casual cry
Her indifference

It starts with an anonymous thought
The voice in my head that screams lies
It sounds like me, but in a higher register
Repeating phrases that will not stop
Competing with the high pitch ringing

I open my mouth to exhale and allow it to escape
And close it quickly, preventing reentry
I stand at a distance and observe the voice
As it is reborn into another monster,
Each time a manifestation of the last

To slay the monster only allows a metamorphosis
The thing grows larger and more powerful with more words
Words like vinegar and baking soda
I know when it will quiet down
But I’m not ready to die

Vainly I stand before you
Waiting for an utterance
Any word of understanding
But these are days of famine

The honeysuckle flow of verse,
And kindness has abandoned
No words can repair this ruin
Too late, too late, to wait

My memory of you will fade
Yours of me shall never be
And thus is another chapter
Of broken dreams and lost love

I am tangled by your rhapsody
Sullen words deftly said
The rise and fall of the harvest moon,
Will ever wonder why we turn away

Winter has come
Allegro non molto haunts my thoughts
And instantly, I am back to that day
Nebulous clouds of soft misty rain
Gently saturating my resolve
It has been a fortnight of misery
So I take pause as,
Adiago-Presto plays on
And the vanguard of my thoughts
Runs the amorphous path I deem vital
Through the briar of thistle,
I struggle
As Presto dissolves
And another sun, sets

Winter nomads
Reclined in a Maytag box
One after another, like Legos
Discarded “Hungry, Please Help” signs
Defines this squalor
Young or old, it shows no discriminating
Countless families, countless vets, countless children
Are lost to this
I am afraid to stare on their plight
Afraid of self-fulfilled prophecy

Is a poem contrived, less a vision?
The sweet words that fall short
That has no joining to the soul
Is still a poem; orphaned and solitary

We force it out, the three stages of literary childbirth
Stillborn stanzas
Severe are the shrieks
How long must we grieve over the forgotten verses?

I raise my fist to yesterday
It is beholden to no man
And yet the brief passage of time
Has annulled my mournfulness
I remember our thoughts of death
Each of us, claiming mortality first
And again, I am immortal yet another day
And you, a monument to the ages

A summer not easily forgotten
A romance shared but ill-conceived
Lobster red legs and arms
Scars and pain,
Etched for twenty-six years
The sound of the fog horn on Cape Neddick,
Still resonates in my hollow depths
At night on the beach,
Do you remember what I said?
With the music of the waves, our opus number one
In the blackness,
It was as if we were standing in the middle of the universe
Stars bright and within reach
We are revolving around one another

Slow and deliberate are the days
Everything new and elastic and hopeful,
I told myself - to remember these insights
Save them for the middle years and reminisce
Use them but don’t abuse
The memories will serve me well
But are forgotten the next moment
As the smell of fresh cut grass distracts me
An opportunity lost will be found in due time
I say to my youthful self
But now past fifty
All is but a vacant dream or shadowy memory
As I struggle to remember the smell of fresh cut grass
This has been a long, cold winter
And spring feels like years away