You said I’m only a small beam of light
And that there’s not much at all to rectify
Once I go dark, I’ll be the darkest night
Once the flame goes out, so does the fight

And if that’s so then when I’m down, I’m really down
And when I’m caught on fire, so is the town
And the night was never blue, it was always black
And the windows to my soul aren’t new, they’re cracked

But despite what you say, I’m not through
Because I refuse to be just a thought to you

I refuse to be just a thought

Fast her wild days ran tall as forest foxglove,
long the happy sun of wing full prayers and beating drums
grassy knees ripening green on summer's lawn
honeycombed hideouts of laughing stings and bees
running long through wild meadows
pale of butter's milky cream
a child's face soft as flower petals
so quick to bud into full bloom
blushing in her rosy days
a swan soon flies to the wild unknown
there where an hourglass looks on

Like a long lost lover
she came out of the night
into my arms
where she would stay
for two days and two nights
under the full moon.

Her kisses so sweet
and her touch so gentle  
we loved until noon
and through the night
like lost lovers
trying to get it right
which we did much
to our delight.

Loving, kissing
and touching
as we explored
each others bodies
like two lost souls
that had found the other
after such a long time
as our souls fit together
like a rhyme

We held each other tight
going into the night
refusing to let go
hoping that it would go slow
knowing that one
would have to go
come morning.

Morning arrived
and one was called away
but upon leaving
both knew
that we would be together
soon even if there
wasn't a full moon.                Jon  York                       2013

Finger traces scar,  
reminding me with numbness.
I catch at the thought-
I miss the pain. At least I was visible.
And memory is a trickster
the way he helps you pretend.

Time suggests that we, as humans, must
never fail to race yet always, we lose.
Sands stroked by waves are not so gently
stroked when named.
The ever so calming ticks equal the calm before a death storm.
Our veins pulse as we mask our paranoia
with a stressed-filled eyebrow and a nervous knee,
a natural metronome.
The beard of the old man is of first relief.
We begin to swap those tired eyes with ours and
sore hands with ours.
We cannot tell the difference.
It ceases to stop yet we carry it along, thinking
it will soon wear down.

even if there is
no we, no us, at least there
is still you and i

Amidst a day cloaked in grey and cold
Like it was dressed in the angry, divisive garments of the world.
I saw a thing of beauty.
Shed tears in my heart and rejoiced in the quiet.
It unfolded before me holding hands with my friend.
The beauty and power that lie deep in the depths of us.
That come forth when we see truth.
With threatening ideas and analog notions;
     honor, faith, sacrifice, commitment.

Beauty lies in the eye of the beholder?
So if I don't see it, it must not be beautiful.
If I don't believe it, it must not be true?
I saw a thing of beauty,
     whether you did or not
          whether you can or not
                Make a mockery if you wish
The fear of grace,
     the weariness of believing,          
          the soul worn out from abuse,
                or neglect or excess
To see a beautiful thing and turn it into fools gold
  When pure gold is too bright for eyes that have grown accustomed to the darkness.

I saw a thing of beauty,
I don't want to own it,
I just want to share it.
We will see this beauty and  be afraid together.