Gaps

Does truth lie in the empty spaces
Between things, casting
Light to objects,
giving them form?

Or is it gaps, wrapped in darkness
In which an artist holds the subject
That give it light and energy.
Chiaroscuro
A counter point to light.

Air too roars
Sometimes with a terrifying force
To fill depressions
An urgent energy with which
It fills its gaps

Is it such gaps that drive our lives
The pulling of our emptiness’s
Providing the energy
With which we fill out
Our destinies,
Lest we sit complacent.

Eden returned

Take a trip with me and I’ll sing you a song
It’s just off the highway
On a hidden path….There just beside.
Perhaps you didn’t notice it,
But now that I’ve pointed out its beginning,
Come and see with me.

Wait, your shoes.
You cannot feel the earth with those on.
There. Now the tie.
You cannot wear a tie, you have no shoes on!
Don’t be afraid, I wont hurt you.
One thing more, turn off that radio;
I hate to sing in competition,
Well now… The trail….
Over here I believe.
You lead the way.
Oh come now… Of course you know it,
You’ve been here before.
Of course it’s a little overgrown now,
But you do know the way.
I’m glad you let me share it with you.
That’s right, you’re doing better now.
That tree has grown a bit, but the apples are still very good.
Honestly, I’ve never understood why you left
But, I suppose you had your reasons.
It’s so lovely here and peaceful.
Let’s sit here a while… You promised me a song,
Or was it I who promised you?
Well, it doesn’t matter.
We both know it…Lets take turns

15th of April 2013
26 miles, 10,000 strong,
Ready at last after months of practice,
To test their endurance.
Proud family members, straining to see Johnny or jill run by.
Or to cheer on the wheel chair racers.
The Boston marathon,
Patriots day,
Flags flying
from the many countries represented.
People of every variety, old, young,
Each beautiful in their endeavor.
Most just trying to beat there own time
And be able to say
“ I ran the Boston Marathon”

Well-wishers bound the route,
On both sides of the road.
Hands holding out water bottles for the runners,
Other Hands applauding
Enjoying the day’s excitement.

“It’s another gorgeous day, here in Boston
For the 80th Boston Marathon”
Comment the watching newscasters.
The women start first, then the men
The Africans, tall and thin make the first rank of runners.
At heartbreak hill no one is surprised at the leaders.


Then the leader crosses the finish line.
First second third and so on.
Did you better your time?
Some, as they cross the finish line,
are so exhausted they just stand staring ahead.
Wondering how their bodies could have given so much,
while paramedics gently guide them to the medical tent
The crowd, amassed at the finish line, applauds
As one by one and in clusters of two and three
Runners reach for the finish line.

Suddenly there is a kind of wompf,
It’s an alien sound that doesn’t belong here,
Out of place with the laughter and the joy.
Then screams replace the joy and there’s a second explosion.
People are stunned, this can’t be happening here in Boston.

A cloud of smoke rises from behind the watchers
Flags billow then fall,
A South African flag, a Thai flag, one from Kenya
Why would any one want to hurt these athletes
Their waiting friends and families?
The sickness of this action so unfathomable
In one moment
Changing a day of joy and celebration
To a day of death and mutilation
Did these sick people mean to **** that 8 year old boy
Who’d come just to see his dad run?
Did they mean to carve off the legs of a that woman
Lying in pain on the stretcher,
Did they mean to bring down a 78 year old who had almost
Almost made it to the finish line.
Perhaps for the last time?

A Chord of wood

Autumn hinted in the reddening leaves
And the sudden crispness creeping into the night.
My wife, Mary, ordered a chord of wood
It came in a large truck, backing, beeping
As it reversed onto our pebbled driveway
We’d move the cars to make way.

And now with the pile dumped
Cured oak lying helter skelter on the ground
Mine it was to stack it, first
Into the nook in our garage wall
There  kept safe, kiln dry, snug

Against the coming winter’s storms. The rest
Piled against its wall, four one way
Four the next, a pattern patiently growing high
Carefully picked, which one next, which one
To fit, till, standing back to
See the shape of things

This now small pile remaining,  left un-chosen
Its pieces ill shaped, torn by the splitting machine
Kindling, a pile of unwanted dirt and ill fitting shapes
That like ill suited persons
Stand in the small remaining crowd unable
To find a place in our well ordered piles.

The Dream

Once, while the sea was green
The unpeopled beach
Stretched its naked arms
About the liquid plane,
I lay listening to the waves licking the thirsty sands
With moistened laughter
Gently teasing its eager edge.

The bold, hot sun shone
Crowning each wave’s capricious crest
A timid zepher rippled the sea grass
That grew in curious knots above the dunes.

The heated sand, pleased at the shade of my sleepy limbs
Yielded up a hidden coolness from beneath its glassy surface
And wrapped its morphic arms about my minds ambling.
Sleep hung in the haze and slipped unnoticed past my guarding eyes.

From out of the blackness that is sleep,
A voice, no, not a voice
but a distant choir of wind plucked reeds
called, or rather played a tune so soft
as if to soothe, and in soothing,  drew close my floating soul.

I stood in pleasant wonder and saw my sleeping body all soulless white,,
Lying limp upon the sand.
I took as step, a small one, mind you,
As if to test this sudden separateness
And as a ship that long against her anchor tugged,
Suddenly finding her cable free,
Sailed into the currents of the air.

I stumbled on my fear, but did not sink,
And slowly drifted towards an isle
That rose in greeting from the sea
And caught me as a feather,
the wind had chanced to lift aloft.

I gazed about this orient isle in childlike wonder.
Upon the mantled vines hung purple grapes and green.
From a hidden
Spring, a crystal stream bubbled clear and pure
Into a shaded pool of secret depths, soft and cool.

A remembered voice called my name,
Not in a word, but in the music of a forgotten dream.
Startling like a timid  deer
To the sudden sound  of raindrops on a nearby leaf
I whirled about.
Her laughter rippled on the shaded pool

Aphrodite’s gift

Ah love, how well you thrive within this my mortal breast.
Blossoming forth daily, new spring shoots
From within this soil.
And Oh, with what subjects you choose to seed us.

Oh Face! Oh amorous face!
Eager lips, silken hair, such *******,
and wit.

Yet in the discovery thereof,
I must confess, even my heated desires
Did begin to despair, till wanton fancy allowed
my eager mind, already pierced
by cupids dainty missiles,
that she must , indeed,  have one.

So oft our amorous conversation,
So oft abused by the fairer ***.
Did dwindle, as I ran out of breath, and thoughts
With which to inspire this inspirer of my heart,
That I soon believed some childhood misfortune
Had cleft her powers complete and left her dumb.

I presented her with books, she read then not;
Teased her with romances, games, metaphysics, and finally
Discussed the weather, which she agreed was most dismal.

Such joy, there is, in those whose ready minds can leap
With resolution, ever to matters other than tea,
And whether the weather would permit us to do this or that.

She more like a rose grew at every moment,
And I, like Endimion, pious lover of the Moon,

At last, near beside myself with how to contend with such a wit,
I attempted to loosen her sequestered mind, for I still believed it to exist,
as I had her *******,
with those amorous spirits of Bacchus
that so enliven the hearts of mankind with joy and laughter.

Woe! Oh Woe!  All for naught,
To quote an author of some repute,
Hoping his forgiveness for my theft.
“Wine dulls the spirit of the dull mind.”
My poor child fell quite asleep.
I must admit that it took a severe inspection
To perceive the difference.

“My Dear”, quoth I, voice filled with finality.
“Tis time to discontinue”

She woke, her eyes filled, she vowed she loved,
Then running out of words, left.

No mortal soul should question the working of Aphrodite’s wonders.
Yet, I must respectfully and with all due reverence
To this most lovely goddess, request,
My love’s antithesis,
Who being ugly, will more than suffice with wit.