He had no insight into the mysteries
Of the gilded sports
Of the British social elite,
By the time he arrived at his beloved college,
Long, long ago in a long-forgotten England,

And in later years, when he looked back at his beloved college,
He'd insist if he possessed a single quality
That might be termed noble
He owed it to his education,
And not least the four years he spent there,

And there’d be times when certain pieces
Of quintessentially English pastoral music
Still had the power to evoke his strange and sudden flight,
While seeming to him to bespeak a passion
For the Arcadian soul of England that verged on the ecstatic,

And others when he’d dream of a day
He might return to the scene of his flight as if in atonement,
And commune with the soul of his beloved England,
With a passion verging on the ecstatic,
And then put the memory to rest for all time,

For he absconded once...just the once it was...
To avoid being chastised for something foolish he did,
And he finished up wandering, forlornly wandering,
His boots freshly caked with the purest English soil,
Long, long ago in a forgotten field in England.

This cathedral was ruined by dust,
Your altar has gone out
And you smell so strongly of the pine trees you rest your head under.

I wish I could bottle you,
Either to have that aroma at my disposal,
Or a shot of you to drown out my hardships.

Each day moves in sequence with great emphasis on the orchards,
Bearing myriad fruits,
Such heavy blossoms in sequence with your arrival.

I'll wish I wouldn't have locked myself away,
Away from the sunlight—
The good sunbeams that grant entrance into life,
Spending all my time lamenting for the world around me.

Seems like no time to feel love now,
Only time to cry for the love I let go to waste.

MORNING GLORY
Feel the drop of the sweetness of the morning dew,
Feel the showers of the morning rain,
Hear the songs of beautiful birds,
Smell the scent of beautiful flowers,
Hear the songs of working mothers,
Hear the sound of the moving stream,
Feel the running animals in search of food,
Feel the walking footsteps of people,
Feel the cries of children,
Feel the laughter of playing children,
Feel the call of friends,
Feel the cold morning water.
All these are the glories of the morning.

(Scene by the brook)*                                

He came seeking solace to Heiligenstadt
    and walked alone by its crystal stream
        welcomed by songs the nightingale taught.

Its cheerful waters made Vienna seem
    a distant, cool and forbidding stage
        where few would embrace a pastoral dream.

He dotted his sketchbooks on every page
    with earthen tones born of peasant heart -
        (though fare rich enough for any age) .                

He poured from the stream the fiddle part,
    and woodwinds sang with the birds in the dell -
        all "choired" together by his masterful art.

At Heiligenstadt Beethoven attended well
    and bequeathed us his golden 'Pastorale.'

*July, 2006

I have an old farmhouse inside my chest,
wooden siding rotten in places and windows
fractured from too many winters,
the roof of which sags near the chimney--
faint smoke-clouds rising, and a light
glowing yellow inside the kitchen, a beckoning

invitation into the faded blue walls
full with portraits of four--my mother, father,
and little sister--brassy frames hung close
together above the wooden table,
nicks and scratches connecting each placemat
like dots of the coloring book page left
magnet-stuck to the refrigerator.

The countertops have grown dusty.
fruit-bowl collecting gnats and mold,
but the zinnias over the sink flourish, replaced
daily and blooming red as the teakettle
rusting on the only remaining stove-top burner,
the others broken, tossed into the garbage
beside the back door, which leads to a forest--

rib-like oaks bent and bowed
over the farmhouse, ivy vines coiled ‘round
each trunk, stretching limb to limb, weaving
webs tangled as the unruly branches from which
they hang, caressing the slumped rooftop
as if to remind the battered, tired building how,
despite everything, the hearth still smolders.

The first smooch kiss
A spring night
Moonlit pastoral lake
Dancing elm, oak, and pear
Mild breeze
Courting song of crickets and katydid
Secrecy and silence
Standing close, smiling, and stirring
Our necks tilted on the right
One hand behind and one front
Thumbs caressing the face
And fingers
releasing the locks of your hair

Our hands massaging behind and front
The adorable landscape of love
Bump and *******
Belly and waist
Crossed legs
Delirious smell of the skin
Taste of your rosy lips and sweet saliva
The taste of one another
Outer eyes closed, inner open
My upper lip between your lips
Your lower lip between mine

Rubbing, pressing, *******, kissing
Small and big, short and long
Goose bumps and blushing
Breathtaking, timelessness, breathless
Uncaptured, indefinable moment!

Weekend away; cramped in the car.
Pile everyone in, bags and cases.
Stained glass seasons hung on the wall -
Time is inevitable;
Nowhere is this clearer than Fife, Tayside,
Aberdeenshire. The fishing boats and harbourside
Sell ice cream. You struggle to find that
Quintessential smokie but instead find the residential cat
At an upmarket play park; bright colours
Against that claustrophobic sky. The world
Is so small. How did we ever get lost here?
God is love, they tell us, but what is love, dear?
A passionate commitment; we are never alone.
But I do wonder: where will these places go?

Rain shatters window.
Lightning flashes from above.
Think novels of you.

What worth is a flow’r to a bunch; and its hidden message?
Or if ev’n a cherry; to a box of chocolates indulged in, and gild’d?
As ev’n what worth is a drop to a summer’ rain in fall.
Or the autumn zephyr to a winter wind unceasing?
Its essence, finesse untold; undervalued.
Quantity; is it not what our hearts seeks, unabashed, unrelenting.
When it must, it should instead quality.

So as the sole dewdrops, from the ***** of the heavens descend
And, that seeks refuge in a flow’r bud silent, and tacit
So too does a tear drop, from the jewel of the eye
In a hearts element, succour.