Whispered theme
of my youth and middle age.
Now
pacing my reluctant
and uncertain steps
into old age.

But who needs old age?
I sure as hell
don't.

Always the golden child
the fearless one.
Destined to live forever.
That was me.

And music -
this concierto.
Music saved my life
every day.

There's nothing you can say
about music.
It eludes the weak grasp
of language.

But I lie.
Let me try.

It is
the language of emotion
the time keeper.

Bounded and constrained
by the beat
plodding, perhaps,
yet truly free of all that
and, at the end,
filled with the last breath
of eternity.

Waiting for the ransom of daybreak
For Oak boughs in care of Wisterias child ,
for warm ploughland breath seeking the chilled morning address ,
Sunbeams held in gray cover , windmere hillsides
in earthly redress
Lorn , incognito Cottonwoods hosting the Mourning Dove
rituals , Sapphire flowers mingle in wetted Thistle ,
Crescendo showers telltale an oxbow brook with
clear quartz reflections , bathing the Sawgrass banks
Crimson , Nutmeg , Sassafras scent surprise , Wild onion teasing
the Dawn palate , dark earth fragrance in colorful green disguise
Gravel road , broom sage borders beneath Hickory canopies ,
leading to home

She rises at dawn, chilled
by the lost embrace
of her sleeping pills, brushes

summer's blown ashes
with the shuffle of footsteps
on old stone floors.

She thaws her hands
around a coffee cup,
sits at her desk,

 ******* Ariel             arrowed from
 yesterday's tide           hoof-printing  
ocean waves                 jetting barnacles
telephone wires            a man's black boot

routing them through
cold English mornings,
a gold Sheaffer pen.

Words seep
across the page,
trail toxins of grief.

Light edges
between churchyard yews,
fingertips the curtains.

A thumb's worth
of breast-milk
stains her nightgown.

Poetry is a mirror of our soul but also a window to the outside world---that which is external and tangible--neither is complete without the other
but it's only the inner side of us that understands the deeper meaning of life and all things.  It's strange but true---the intangible is mysterious, profound and has power and resources latent within us--most of which we aren't even aware---until kindled and brought to light by the muse of poetry.  Then a clear light dawns upon us and we begin to see and understand things better.  The 'physical we' is, in my view,  of lesser significance than the 'abstract we' or should I say the 'essential we'?---that which can be seen, handled or articulated is only the periphery of truth and things but not the core--we are larger than what we think  but we don't grasp this as we are lost in the banality and humdrum of daily life--we are walking shadows rather than light and fall short of our real potential. Talking of language and music, Felix Mendelssohn wrote (my paraphrase):
words mean less to me than music and it's music that speaks clearer to me.
        All said, man is a mystery as life is but they intersect--at every point.