In moments of profound silence
when the heartbeat is just a whisper,
you can hear the ancient winds of Heaven
blowing through your soul.

Your face reminds me of old wood.
Full of cracks and crevasses,
each one a memory.
Its your life story.
All your sins,
all your blessings.
Every laugh
every tear,
is carved upon it.
Ancient and ageless
you are beautiful.

The season's first lightning bug like a ghost
seen from the corner of the eye...
what's that?

I have a memory of your smile…
so warm and inviting.

I have a memory of your eyes...
pools of blue deep as forever.

I have a memory of your sway...
the way you glanced over your shoulder.

I have a memory of you...
ageless that time will not erase.

I am man,
you should be afraid.
Think nature is red
of tooth and claw?
Try me.
I drive whole species to extinction
for food and pleasure,
or just because they annoy me.
For long I considered war a sport...
and still my remorse is false.
I have slaughtered whole races,
and enslaved others
for being somehow different.
I shamelessly wade in gore
and make the demons blush.
I poison rivers;
and lay waste to land,
I'm crass enough to make life a commodity.
I will be the death of this world yet,
if I don't do myself in first.
Fear me,
I am man.

I am man...
an angel fell because of me.
Made in God's image they say
all His traits are found in me.
Half way to angels,
near relative of demons.
I have crafted art so beautiful
it will make you weep.
I can be grace and kindness,
mercy and compassion.
The angels hymns to Heaven
are pale reflections of the songs I sing.
I love deeply
and have great strength of mind.
My meditations on the Divine
are the music of spheres...
my science examines,
the world in depth.
Heaven and Hell merge within me
and wage their war for my soul...
but its up to me who wins.
This is the balance,
I am man.

Does anyone know
where darkness goes
when light appears?
Or where love goes
when it ends?
What happens to hate
when forgiveness begins?
These are minor mysteries though
barely worth considering.

What I seek
are the deep mysteries...
the ones no science has answered,
no theology discussed.
Like where do all those
single socks go
when they disappear
in the wash,
never to be seen again?

Cut Irises
fresh from the spring
dripping purple
on the kitchen table
as they die.

I walk into a grocery
to do my shopping.
I grab a cart;
and in the basket,
a scarf.
I hold it up...soft wool,
brown, beige and rust striped.
I hold it to my nose...
and catch the scent of a clean,
healthy young woman.
I close my eyes and imagine.

She's vibrant and pretty
in the fullness of life.
Small with firm *******
and wide welcoming hips...
her eyes brown,
with long dark hair bounded
by a soft wool scarf.
Maybe she's an art student...
meeting up with her lover.
Its a cool late autumn day,
and flushed faces show
the pleasure of their meeting.
Holding hands
they shuffle through the fallen leaves
planning for a future
blissfully unaware
of how now shapes us more.
They go shopping for dinner,
and she accidentally
leaves the scarf behind.
Some paths close now,
others open
and life moves on.

I open my eyes smiling
and gently fold the scarf.
Laying it down
I think
it will make a lovely addition
to my collection.

I dreamed last night
of ice cream.
The soft serve kind
chocolate and vanilla swirl.
Cool and sweet
melting in the sun;
running down the cone,
across my hand,
sticky and dripping.
Then I woke
and looked outside,
still winter.

Who
besides you
am I but an echo of?

Who
besides you
is the source of my soul?

Who
besides you
holds my heart in your hand?

Who
besides you
is behind the stars?

Who
besides you
is the source of all life?

Who
Besides you
is love?

Whom
I pray
are you?

We are spirits
bound to this world,
its fate our own.
An encampment of lost souls;
banned from heaven,
with no chance to roam the spheres.
We etch out meager lives
a mere half shadow of angels,
an echo of demons lust.

A cool morning breeze
sunlight on dew...
a child's laughter
and a lover's smile.
The physical pleasures
of work
good food,
maybe fine wine.
These are the end days
this is the first day...
There is no future
only the ever changing now.

A gentle breeze blows
through your window
the smell of spring fills the air,
I sneeze...

I kiss the nape of your neck
and inhale
your sweet perfume,
I sneeze...

Your cat jumps up on my lap
purring,
begging to be petted,
I sneeze...

We undress and climb into bed
our naked bodies press together;
where the dog usually sleeps,
I sneeze.

You are beautiful and I want you
but I fear my dear
I am allergic to your world,
AH...AH...ACHOO!

March began with snow on the mountains
winter's remnant of bitter white.
Yet just a months passing
and all the world is new.

Down by the river
the air seems like
a gray green mist
of new leaves just sprouting.

Some birds…I've never seen them
have moved into the air conditioner,
their babies squawk and scream
for their dinner like all babies do.

I sit and watch the gray green mist
ascend up the mountains,
and sure as season's turning
I'll watch the autumn colors descend.

As I get older that cycle;
the living and the dying,
gives me all the meaning I need,
but aren't beginnings lovely?

Hearts like toys
on Christmas day,
such fragile things.
You treat mine,
I'll treat yours
like eggshell glass.
I am too old
for that again.
For if I
pass it on,
that hurts me
too.

Women are a gateway;
a path and goal unto themselves,
you know this as I.
The­y are our way into this world
and out of ourselves.
If you are no­t careful
some pretty eyes and a tempting form
will sweep you up;
sure as shangh­aied,
to worlds and lives
you never dreamed.
After its over
you w­ill pick yourself up;
and withdraw inside,
to lick your wounds an­d cry.
Then one day...maybe while you're gardening
you will look ­up and think...
What was that all about?
And get on with your lif­e.
But then a pretty smile and a tempting form
will beckon and of­f we go again,
sure as shanghaied.

Southern summers are so ****** hot,
its sound is the drip, drip, drip
of condensation from the air conditioner,
and of sweat off the tip of your nose.
Each year I ask...
which is worse;
the long, cold, brutal Maine winters,
or the long, hot, humid Virginia summers?
The summers are worse.
You can always put on more clothes
but can only take off so many
before you’re arrested for indecent exposure;
or worse, nobody notices.
I’d rather be arrested.
There are days when flesh on the bone
is too much to wear.

How is it this swirling,
tumbling mist of atoms and particles;
organize itself well enough
to write poetry?

The pride of the north
Yankee lasses;
Oh… those New England girls can love.
They’re not too prim and proper
for lust and lechery;
they learn their skills and ply them too
on dark, cold winter nights.
They’ll keep you going and keep you warm,
make coming in from the cold
all that much more...
delightful.

In the park out walking
all alone,
some foggy night.
In the shadows,
movement.
Shared glances;
smile, Hi.
We touch.

Jan. 10, 2006

A single leaf upon the wind
against an azure sky,
year's end.