In a dream, I peer into a stand of tiger grass,
but I see no fearful creature burning bright,
no malevolent eyes engender fright.
But my mind will not let the notion pass,
Blake's tiger, stalking in the forest's night.
I long to see that fearsome sight,
with blazing coat and searching eyes, a killer, ready to harass.

Dreams are made of such as this.
When minds unencumbered, roam at will,
when rapid movement of eyelids,
belie the appearance of sleep's bliss.
So, when I lie content, compliant, still,
I obey my mind, do what it bids.

The lines we see tell of age,
of earth's upheaval, movement, rage.
They tell of floods, and fire, and drought,
and teach us that, without a doubt,
Mother Earth in all her glory,
tells a most compelling story.

Time and tide shaped this place,
this weathered rock with cratered face.
It reminds me of passing time,
of wasted years, of years sublime.
This rock will slowly fade away,
attacked by wind and salted spray.
It lies exposed as seas expand,
will end its life as grains of sand.

The wave rolls and builds to form a crest,
then tumbles and breaks, but will never rest.
Its undertow pulls as it seaward flows,
and carries all, as the next wave grows.

Dance Macabre

In gyrating anthropomorphic form,
trees dance to the tune of nature's storm.
Their dance macabre in its wildest stage,            
keeps in tune with the storm’s rampage.
Branches are whipped, leaves blown free,
ecstatic movement in each blond tree.
And when the storm has had its fill,
there is movement in the branches still.