I am standing,
at once in place,
at once afar,
thinking, love,
my swift flown
dove, I am
thinking thoughts
of you, down by the
rivers edge, where the
waters ran so blue, and the
Stars twinkled down like
angels in the heavens,
when we kissed, that first
time, so near a time, and yet
so far away. I am thinking, love,
my dearest flower, while the wind
comes blowing coldly,
and the mist comes slowly rising,
I am thinking thoughts of you.

A frozen wind is whistling, all through the starry night.
snow within it, it howls along the frozen paths, of the midnight
winters winds, beneath the moon, and thousand lights.
The trees are whispering, dead leaves soon to fall, they voice
their last and final breaths, before the fall of wintertide, and
the stunted length of days. I sit and watch the evening fall,
and the leaves gone one by one, spinning down to frozen earth,
at the beck of the winter winds. I think of how I sit here, the how,
the where, the why. Why am I here, sitting and watching the death
of another year, quiet all about me, none beside me, while my age
rises from its restless slumber, and pronounces loud, my own mortality,
and the shortening length of days. Snow is falling, sound beneath the quiet,
adding depth to the empty silence. The snow falls all around, and blankets all
in pristine white, and a mantle of heavy quiet, beneath the clacking of the hardened
branches, and rustling of leaves, dead and doomed to fall, beneath the moon and
thousand stars, and the weight of early death.

The candle flickers against the wall
and darkly lights the cracks, hidden
in the yellowed plaster, while the light
dances with the shadows, and licks the
darksome panes, with an ember orange
glow. The moon is lifting pale face to the
welcome of the stars, and the sun is riding
low, soon to fall beneath the world, to
rest to shine again. A woman stands there,
watching, lovely in a crimson gown, and
a rose in her right hand lifted to her face,
while her other graces the window ledge,
As she gazes at the rising darkness, and the
fall of the weary sun, letting its rays kiss her,
hesitantly, before the the chill night rises slowly,
and the moon shines down again.
Ah, the pale moon! How lovely she is, white
daughter of the night, rising from the East
I'm her timeless dance, to glide over the heavens,
and retire in the west, yielding to the fiery sun,
as he comes to rise again. The woman closes her
eyes, and sighs, a fragrant breath, scents of
pomegranates, and oranges, and the stately
pear, ride within it, and so enrich the flawless night,
with a second quiet beauty, an echo to the first.
There is Jasmine in the air, wafting with the gentle breeze,
of a summers gentle night. Carried on that midnight wind,
It sighs about the womans face, and ruffles her night black hair.
The dawn is coming, pale light in the eastern sky, while all is dark
before. The woman steps from graceful window, arched with
fluid curves, and closes the window fast, the curtains rustle shut.
she lays her down to gentle sleep, upon a bed of straw. Her eyelids
flutter softly closed to rest, as the sun lifts his morning head,
and bathes the sleeping world, in light and laughing youth.
And so she sleeps, as dawn does rise, and men begin to stir,
for she is born of gentle night, and to night she does return,
but fearing the strong and burning light, she hides within her
little room, and sleeps the day away. For she is Jasmine, subtle
sweet, no lilly or blazing poppy. And she is happy. Content with
the night and the starry sky, and the softly watching moon. Content,
and lost, and all alone.

The Light is falling, slowly, as a golden radiance, thick and sweet as honey, dripping from the comb. I lie on bare mountains, and I lie in green meadows, and I dream, dreaming, dreamful, light and life and peace flow around me, enveloping me, as if I sink into a warm ocean, bottomless and calm and deep. My hair lies around me, and as I dream, I in wonderment and full of the glory of all, touch Gods hand, and life around me stills. I in my dreaming, Light pouring down slowly from the bright glory of the infinite heavens, open my eyes and see. And if I was ruined and weary, with death upon me, and my life flying from me, away and gone, pulled away as a beautiful kite might, in some windy spring day, fly from the protesting hand of a child, and soar away over the green trees and reaching mountains of the land, even if all this were so, and the Angel Of Death were upon me, fair hand upon my shoulder, even if all this were so, I would not trade my fate for any, for the light is falling all about me and a light is in the heavens  shining through me, and I feel the gentle pull, of peace and warmth, of tranquility and everlasting light, and I hear the call of angels, singing in many voices, in one voice, speaking in many tongues, in one tongue, and God is there and I hear him, he, founder of all, the God of Life, of Light, of Love. I hear him calling. I am floating now, spiraling slowly, away from all, away from everything, and into something more, amid the everlasting light,
and the sound of stars, singing in the light filled vaults of heaven, and I go, far, amid the everlasting light, and the sounds of stars, divine in peace.

On the gentle ***** of a green and waving hill, vibrant with the life of spring, flowers fall from the outspread limbs of trees, an ocean in their sound, and fall gently to the earth, soft as a mothers kiss, upon a child's tender brow. The wild flowers are spread out among the grasses, bright spots of changing color, amidst the flowing green, waving in the springs gentle breeze, light glowing through the blades, shining in the sun, the scent of life and growth and change arising, slow and overpowering as the years to come, as ages gone. Underneath the spreading trees, their leaves give shade and succor to those who fear the light and hide from its revealing rays. A fox rustles through the underbrush, coat burning orange, a rushing flame in the green light, filtering down from the canopy above, dim in its softened form. Ahead a hare, leaning down to drink from a cool and quiet pool, looks up as a ray of light, pure and golden, falls from the heavens, as the light of God himself, admitted by the wind rushing, parting the woven branches, above, beyond the trees. The leaves spin and sparkle, sighing also in the breeze, and so a harmony ensues sighing leaves and rushing wind, in that tranquil, quiet place. Dust falling, innumerable motes of glowing light, they drift downwards, minuscule, as snow made all of light, dim and golden,  like the shining sands of heaven, swept down to fall to earth, and dust the earth with heavens bounty, and let its light sparkle for a moment, an age, in the quiet of the world. Far above the wooded hill, beyond the rustling grasses, and the colorful blossoms in their midst, high in the cold of the infinite heavens, and the currents of the flowing wind, an eagle soars, and so in mastery of the world below, the world above, does swoop to take unwary prey, in claws cruel in their curved dimensions, and the sharpness of their edge. But below in the world of quiet peace, though blood may drip from pure sky, and so enrich the flattered earth, all is yet still, and calm prevails, and if blood does fall, sprinkled from the heavens as a cruel rain, macabre in its crimson gleam and scent of severed life, it falls unknown, unmarked, to soak into the warm earth, receiving as it gives, and so is added once more to the cycle of life at the beginning, from which in time new blood will flow, through veins new and delicate, frail with the tender youth of new things begun, and so new life be born from death.

I sit in bed, my hair, ruffled and undone, eyes blurry
from lack of sleep, while I wonder what to say. Searching
the farthest depths of my mind, for as far as I can fathom
for as long as I can, I search within, for what to say to move
you, to laughter or to tears, serenity or despair, hope or a sense
of loss, deep within the pit of your stomachs, that moves you to
tears, some shed some not, while you stare at my last and final
lines and touch with your index finger, shaking, or click with your
pad or mouse, a small icon, down at the bottom of your screen,
the bottom of the poem, that indicates so much, that brings so much
joy, at so very little effort on your part, all you who have glanced at my
poetry and, deeming it mediocre, have moved on, even as the lines and syllables of my heart and lessened soul fall from your attentions, and fade from your hearts. I am reaching now, reaching far within myself,
for the courage to spit these words out onto this glowing screen, late at night, with the promise of an early dawn visible on my small clock, green letters glowing like some poisonous chemical, mixed with the sewage of a rotting city and the vileness of all the cruel and hateful thoughts, uttered and imagined by all of mankind, within our short and  devastating history. I have found it. I beg you now, all of you, all who merely glance at this, my desperate plea to all of you, out there in the shifting nothingness of cyberspace, to please, like or comment, tell me my work is ****, and that I should drown myself in the nearest roadside ditch rather than write again, for at least I would know, at least I would feel that my work elicits something from you, and that I at least, am not as great a failure as a writer, as a poet, as I am coming to believe. I beg you now, with all my heart and screaming soul, with all the rage and fury and bitter tears unshed you have elicited from my tired soul, read and comment, and like if you may, for I am tired of being ignored, and of the deep and lonely feeling of being alone and forgotten, unnoticed and uncared for, due to the mediocrity of my work, though my heart were poured into it and my soul spent to give it life. I beg of you. And now, tired as I am, I will sleep, and dream and wake and sleep again, for anxiety and fear. And perhaps this too will go unanswered, unnoticed, lost amid the vastness of cyberspace, glanced at but not read, not searched for any subtle glimpse of meaning I, the writer may have hidden in these words for you and you alone, out of the thousand thousand people, authors and browsers, who may come and, if they deign to glance at it closer, never feel the exact same emotions, and feel the same thoughts as you will have, for you are you, and I am I, and for all our differences, and for all that we may be a world apart, or living nextdoor, we are connected, just as everyone, and everything is , in this world, in this life. Find meaning in that if you will. Ha. And now farewell. I hope that my words will be heeded, at least to some extent. But then, they probably won't, for all the bitter truths and all the pain and rage and fury written here for all to see, for none to see. Farewell.

Dead leaves
are falling,
like sighs
from a winter
sky.

I am watching,
watching here
alone tonight,
watching as
The clouds float
by, and the night
goes whispering
past.

Watching you, asleep tonight.

The wind is
sighing, in
a winter sky,
and the grass
is softly waving,
the birds that
came are gone
again, with many
a piercing cry.
The silence reigns,
my dearest heart,
the reeds are softly
rustling. The smell
of pine is in the air,
why do you yet cry?

I look out the lonely window, misted in the mornings cold.
I see shadows, grey and formless, out there in the sleeping
world. Still sleeping, on this grey and quiet morn. I wonder
why I feel this way, why I hate the noisy, bustling day. Why
I prefer instead, to stand here, alone and cold, and draw
pictures in the condensation, gathered from my steaming
breath. My melancholy is my oldest friend. She sits there in
the corner, content to stare, wordlessly out the misted window,
and fidget with her hair. I wonder why I have this life, why I
am not instead, a tree or rock or distant star, burning coldly,
out in the great expanse. Or even a flower, violet with the
shade of twilight, here only for a brief while, a second to
The Infinite, and then gone, blown away like chaff upon an
Autumn wind. I wish. For I am like the quiet breeze that
stirs the grasses, and raises the heads of sleeping flowers, in
the cold of early dawn. I am like a shallow pool, clear for those
with eyes to see, still as a translucent mirror, set upon those
tiny waves. People glance my way, and then continue, on
with their vibrant lives, so full of light and color, determining
in a passing glance, the frailty of life I hold, no threat, no pain.
As easily extinguished as to blot a word of faded ink.
I sit here, my melancholy by my side, hand upon my shoulder.
I wonder if it is not time, to seek some newer fresher place,
like the violet in her time. I wonder if it is not best, to leave
this faded world behind, and just....go. To leave and seek a
better clime. For after all, what's a word of faded ink, too
grey to read, so light as to be barely seen, but a thing, not far
removed, from the clean expectancy of the white beneath.
Awaiting only a ready brush, and ink, near at hand.