Who is to blame,
for my secret disarray,
like many patterns dyed
in summer fields of color?
Not I,
Who hides my grief,
In deeper shades of gray.
Just let the winds of sky
blow shut a cloudy passage,
that I might keep wisely then,
My many shades of sorrow,
behind me for a while.

And eighty years
passed among mortals.
With pieces of life,
being laid on the board,
The carpenter takes,
his hammer home.
The work of the handle,
Grown tired and thin,
Hands of flesh,
Now turned to stone,
What he has created,
In this life he lived,
Has left him immortal.

Please accept my apologies
for pretending to not know you
If I knew you too much
I couldn’t help that either
I cannot accept this choice
in my double-edged world.

Some of them met you
A few remained hidden
in their stretched-out tracings of time

Some harbor revenge
or plot their escape
as they run ruthlessly into their sin

Some linger lonely
at the foot of the mountains
exposed to the elements of love

Some owned your heart
Some gave it back
Some ripped it out and ate it

The night,
Sometimes it haunts you.
But I’ve always felt a kinship
with the night.
Always could I bare my soul
to that dark liquidity
and drink deep red wine,
Until the moon shed tears of stupidity
All for my simple thoughts delight
For moonlight is gentle,
With tears unassuming.

Oh, but out there,  
where I might float with ghosts
In ethereal air.
Amid darkened landscapes
of purple and blue

The night
It belongs to the poets
To the writers the artists and the lovers.
they are the ones who truly understand
the vast darkness and breadth
of its colorless depth.
For often it is mirrored
in their soulful eyes and lovers’ cries,
It is a wonderfully mysterious thing,
The night,
Sometimes it haunts you.

Stones pressing every soiled surface,
of my well-worn soles,
far and hard they have walked.

People expect so much and realize,
So little of the horrors,  
that others go through.

Does this frailty now become me?
Should it now become my weakness,
To grow old with my time?

I would say no.
Even old smiles have need,
to maintain a past happiness.

Still I listen for that hidden life
that to calls to me
hopeful healing for a well-worn soul.

Rain gone now.
Earth a wet void.
Warm night air,  
A fine summer show.
Bright moon,
Shines in my eyes.
Dreams, clear streams,
falling on stones.
Faint clouds roar,
"Who now heads home?"
The trees then answer,
"Who wants to know?"
Scenes of summer
Will never stay.
But I,
I will always remain.