Below the tree line
love ran its rank course
in hungry silence, with diligence,
where all are meat, and none are free,
to the lone wolf prowling through the pines
pure of heart, and lovers’ dreams
over many a distant hill he roams
his silent sorrow speaks to me.

Here amongst these rolling hills
among no person's love or lust
resigned to chase his dimming suns
with knowledge of his end to come.
None should know such lonely thoughts,
as this simple creature, filled with light,
chasing always loves request
to find his longing in the night.

Howling deeds that others shun,
Silver drops of heartache shimmer,
from jaws of silent moonlight come,
glowing with the faintest glimmer,
of peaceful evenings left undone.

Those longing cries for others,
Friends, enemies, lovers,
They cannot peer within
such chilly hills where solitude lives
Lone wolves run free and live apart
They have no brothers, no friends, no lovers,
to claim their lonely wandering heart,
the coldest, grimmest winds that blow
are all they need to nourish and feed,
their hunger wandering cold
and lean amongst the silent trees

The roses on my doorstep
overtake the sidewalk’s growth
tomorrow I shall plant more sidewalk
to better expand my rosy show

People can’t be stretched like starlight.
Even through the rebirth of time
of intention, of loyalty, of love,
there’s always another above,
that lingers like sudden pain,
of the salted wounds cut.
A past someone, a present devil,
declaring power over lives,
not theirs to control.
Oh how I yearn
for the freedom to burn,
If only to be stretched like starlight.

Many years in this world,
And I am not yet immortal.
Wandering through,
A thousand lives,
of sun-kissed lands,
Deep dark rivers,
Of opaque glass,
Tall grass so green,
it hurts your eyes.
Borderlands, flatlands,
where dust devils thrive.
Tasted time, sipped on wine,
still not immortal.
Loved cooks, changed looks,  
inserted myself into history books.
(at least I tried)
Now here I am yet still alive,
Head in the clouds,
to view my skies,
Nope,
Still not immortal.

You are not forgotten
though,
my thoughts are bare *****
hollow
like small veins of dried flowers
pressed
between pages of a book
coaxed
at times by tender thoughts
forward
To recall your lovely form
Waiting
Folded open in my mind

Out there,
alone as a stone on the road,
After one of life’s lectures on finer times,
my own two feet carried me home.
I moved fine-tuned with a steady direction,
Until an obsolete ending ensconced in a reflection,
Did capture my dreamer’s attention,
Thus causing my downward fall.
In dreams I’ve braced for the impact so solid
Of the ground rushing up from below,
But still,
I’ve been the static sharp ending of a show.
I’ve sung like a siren and I’ve flown.
I’ve been a child peering in all alone,
I’ve been a pebble,
I’ve been a rock,
I’ve been a stone.

I have been combing the strands
of my thoughts for you
you
who left traces of your fragrance,
in lieu of yourself
a pungency as of ripe apples
hot tea
or things lain long in lavender
very faint
but of a lingering sweetness.
Now that I have found you
I can see
your delicate coloring
which once so delighted me
has been faded in the wash
of my tumbled mind
and yet do you still
bring the tears to my eyes
as will some small phrase
someone said to me long ago
to whom my desire
to mean so much
still meant so little
I have untangled you
from my web of delicate things
only to find you were the last of a kind
within my yearning soul
shame on me... I did not know.

Without you I shall just fade
Back into the fabric of my past
How dare I imagine myself
Part of your exotic weave
My colors worn and drab
Dulled to shades of grey.

My soul is clothed
By your body.
Your limbs are swathed in my scent.
Your face is covered
In fine shadows.
Still I drink from you,
I drink…

My ready soul sips the beauty
Of your curves so delicate.
My eyes are vibrant bees,
Your mouth a rosy flower.
Hold your body for your lover,
While I delve,
For greater treasures,
From the beauty of your mind.
Then unguarded and untouched,
I will steal you for my own,
Silky, soft and clear.
I will shape and shift
our need to be,
While I coil and uncoil
Your long soft hair.
I will kiss you,
Unaware.

The thoughts of leaves interest me,
Fragile fall, crisp with color,
harbingers of cooler times.
How fleeting flow their days,
How long lay their nights,
Memories of summers past,
Those thoughts that still drift,
Into many a fragrant eve,
hanging gently in their trees
to sing a song of rivers and streams,
and melodies,
of lemon scented fireflies.
This where the image of leaves,
is mirrored in the realm,
of my mind’s infinite summers.
Where the thoughts of leaves,
blow wild and free,
and memories past still wander.

In a quivering of lips
While our eyes converse
distance closing
until nothing was there
but a shaft of sunlight  
in the scent of your hair.

Silence now,
subtle shock of your words
lying lose on an indifferent floor
sweeping slowly, I scatter them,
through the light of the open door,
Floating whispers in the breeze.  

And no more.

Those tiny people
growing green,
amongst a greener leaf

They do not celebrate
They will not clap or shout

Those tiny people slip
under doors, windows,
silent as whispers,

They forage for time,
Rest in shade,
Visit the garden fair,

Together, they lift
Push, pull, shift

Small cracks they
see through
to wonder, and stare.

Those tiny people
walk on wind
They tread on light

To build a life,
For all to share.

All assertions.
Are defeated by time.
And yes, there has always been
more meaning in what's left untouched.
The passing time does turn to dust
amid my solitary and loveless nights.
Such lack of touch still leaves me yearning,
For sleep to remove me from my plight,
with a subtle singing of liquid sighs,
Reflecting loves lake with lonely skies.
Silent I remain, forced to abstain,
From those human pleasures of life,
That most basic need of human touch.

Without a sound
The moon arcs high
a cratered orb tracking time.
It slips beyond my quixotic experience
beyond the reach of my rational hands.
Pale and round the silent drum,
glistens speckled silver-bright.
The night cats howl, the winds lash out,
blowing and tossing life’s pages about,
There for an intellectual moon’s delight,
New pages that need to be learned.
Lyrics of a song, fragments of a tune
Searching for and nearly found.
Looking for one more story to tell,
The moon arcs high
Without a sound.

It sloughs my skin,
that unknown distance
it takes to reach
my end in sleep.
Your closed eyes
and carmine lips
formed into a smile
a trait that I’d
surrender into
as often as
your smiles endure
my transcendence
of bone and muscle

Once I am dead,
I will evoke night vision,
So that I may see,
From beyond my grave,
All those people beautiful,
Whom I once found ugly,
Within my living life,

A cold wind is whistling under my door,
And the city's naked wail,
sounds pale with the tune.
I see an alley cat crossing fast,
A silent shadow on the roadside path,
And faint I  hear on the wind in the night,
Thousands of typists on the internet.
Instead of wishing for the moment to slow,
To bear me away and watch me go,
I have found your poem so beautiful,
That I forget the cat crossing the path,
To the tune of typists on the internet.

The land awoke today,
bright and windless,
to gaze upon a porcelain sun.
In love with light,
it shows once more,
wavering subtle shades,
of brilliant liquid color,
within its well-shaped orb.
It is a clear and selfless light,
that never waits to see,
its own flawed colors,
shattered as broken glass,
reflected in windows of poverty.
Alone this painted orb,
knows only of self-comforting,
and in its seclusion,
it may never know,
through either love or wisdom,
just how beautiful it can be.

Having been forgotten,
I care little for myself,
yet concern still runs deep,
for the life of the one,
who forgot me.

whose face in the wind,
and the falling of the leaves,
to curse the ancient rain
drifting long in alien seas
save now that breath
for a future in motion
a short sentence is best
when crossing wide oceans