During those gentle hours of work, I wait,
For winters paradise to start his show,
Lifting my existence and rise up straight,
I will not lie dormant or melt like snow.

And wait under that wan light of winter,
I end work to dance, writhe, for no reason,
Being in heaven, as cold days splinter,
A winter’s day might seem short, this season.

We remember, as summer distillations are gone,
Leaving debris and mayhem in its wake,
It’s beauty bereft and days now badly drawn,
Winter’s tyranny looking at summer’s take,

Cold and unfair, cunning in what it does,
Me, a prisoner pent into that icy grip.

“Those storms,
Alive with leafs,
As musical instruments,
Stealthy invading,
My mind wails;

Harsh and cruel,
Wind driven and unkind
Grief, choking and weep’ng.
For that sun th't once was,
Of days now so long gone;

Will that cradling wind,
Waving those boughs afar,
With indifference ‘n mind,
And sit on its throne,
Enfolding long dead leafs;

He has taken them away,
His indigo colour fill’d sky,
That once held a sun-gild’d air.
Now just a dead grace,
And horizons fill’d dreamy hues;

Shatter’d songs of winter’s tale,
With indifference, they sing,
Of summer’s gracel’ss dead,
And her eternal soul,
Filled with colour, now gone.”

I stand in that hot ring alone and bitt’r,
Waiting for my fate with no fear or doubt,
The soft ground grips my feet as I speed hither,
Searching for a path and avoid this bout.

Crowds run fast to escape my pounding feet,
Falling, jumping climbing to avoid sharp horns,
Fear filled eyes, pound’ng hearts in beat,
Red and white are in his sight like ugly thorns.

The bull unaware of what has transpir’d,
The matador sword ready, it’s stance firm and lithe
Look’ng for that soft shoulder spot so desir’d,
That bright red cape provocative, as it writhe.

Down strikes the searing steel to enter it’s flesh,
Ending the bulls rage, and love, that hidden mesh.

That orb of the even’g sun sets in clouds,
And storms have ent’red that somber nightly shroud,
O'er golden streamlets, and forests all around,
The dy’ng day hidd’n behind sun’s golden mound.

So is that beauty which you hold in lease,
beauty, full of cand’r and does never cease,
while I bend and I low’r my sight and head,
And worship your gay smiles, as is said.

Unmiss’d by creation joyous and vast,
Still chill’d in the light, soon I shall have cast,
Will that beauty die with her guileless heart,
Leaving me enslav’d, as so it did start.

Fortune; chances of where my soul is lost,
While I roam through life couni’g the final cost.

They tell me she's charm’ng,
That autumn, as I do not see her infernal secrets,
Her lullaby, her hands and the long slumber that’s disarming,
As winter’s blanket will slowly cover and makes us equal,

My spirit once had love but this day now, at th’s  tired struggle,
the love of my life gave her fatal stroke,
goodbye, welcome, crime, horror and winter’s tussle ,
my love, passion and hope for the flowers, soon to die, broke.

is not you, autumn with sun so clear and so white
yes, in me you see the twilight of such a day
Those so very white summer’s flowers soon dying of blight
I hate passion and the spite of it makes me hurt with’n your latest ray

Like the seasons, as they are yearly new and old,
So is my love still telling me what has been told.

White woman with numberless dreams,
The tales woven with soft silken thread

I bring you careful and with rever’nt hands,
The books of my countless strange loving plans,

White woman passion that was there not before,
Tide wears its shall’w bed in that sandy shore,

With a heart more old than the horn sound’d past,
And those dreams brimmed with pale fire so vast:

White woman of sweet dreams and countless time,
I bring you my heart and passionate rhyme.

Silently the sun rises out of its nightly slumber,
Shadows hide, awaiting sun’s fierce look,
Veils of mist rise to join their brethren,
Hiding the tree’s peaks, soon to be painted golden by the sun.

The last of that misty membrane is drifting not knowing where to go,
Will it join the shadows, still hiding in the dells,
Birds chase and sing on that now blond plain filled with golden spots,
But their fun and adventure is soon to end.

The rising sun looking disapproving at natures play,
Knowing that this too will have to end soon,
Flowers turn to promising brightness, hoping for light and warmth to come,
Slowly nature follows sun’s vivid controlling rules.

Crowds of shadows are chased like beggars away from those likely spots,
I follow my golden path home, near that vale and shadows dark,
To rest from my nightly toil, disapproving of nature’s warm play,

As autumn looks on guilty and silently, approached that summers day.

At midnight during the autumn I stand,
Beneath the mystic moon she will emerge.
The dewy vapour soft and unplanned,
Exhaled from that golden globe’s verge;

The rosemary nods upon the grave;
As lilies floats on waves with icy urge,
A conscious slumber seems to take,
Beneath the mystic moon she will emerge;

The bodiless airs, as a wizard rout,
Ghosts the shadows rise and fall in moon’s light,
Flit through your darken’d chamber in and out,
Beneath the mystic moon she will emerge;

Far in the forest, trees tall dim and old,
For them some untold secret’s may unfold.

Heaven is a place I can’t reach,
And as fruit mature on that tree, I desire one of each,
Provided for me, I think, but they hopeles’y hang,    
Drowning, sinking to their abhor’end abode, from which they came.

If mortal lips could divine and deliver that single sil’nt syllable,
Will I get that fruit hanging from that azure sky, unreachable,
Our statures reach for the sky, and we fear,
Daily our heroisme we recite, but we don’t come near,

I offer you that love is life, and life is immortality,
Follow that brook into your heart,
There where blushing birds drink without formality,
Alas, will shadows tremble of those little draughts, you pry,
‘less be beware, or that brook of life will soon burn and be dry.

As time moves on and the brave day seeks his hideous nightly bed,
I behold those faded flowers well past their prime,
Mature trees now leafless, denuded and bare are wilting,
As summer’s green is all but gone,
Stolen by autumn’s greedy hand.

But now that autumn is borne away, by that white chilly one,
Among the wastes of time, this years autumn is gone awry,
Like a woman’s portrait painted by nature’s hand,
Hue of hues, unknown by anyone,
Now winter is here, stealing that women’s soul,

Whereupon it looks and I am,
Worried about April’s first born flowers.
Sun’s glorious eye look’d on at winter’s horrid crime,
the plunder of women’s summer soul’s,
Once, that winter was a fair sweet youth.

Gone are those days, as winter’s is showing no remorse
As souls lost, seldom or never found again,
Winter’s crime, like broken glass no cement can redress
Flowers withered, covered by winters snowy shame

Love, as roses are alluring, her rose-briars will hurt,
the wild rose blossom’s in this early spring,
its briars protecting her from her sure fall.

a delicate flower to send forth its profound scent,
in that sunny green vale, I lay,
thinking of love, as birds caroled joyfully.

while there, I took my heart to me,
wondering about all those bright things to be,
when winter’s time is here, all will vanish.

then my visions will be in vain,
but as earth echo’s ends,
and winter’s naked tomb is there.

love will cease like a night’s dreams, floating away,
leaving me with that rose scent, and my creation true.
and thinking of the briar’s hurt.

I bring unknown wine to my lips long parch’ng,
And summon them to drink that ruby juice.

My hands hug that cooling translucent glass,
Promis’d heaven, yet it does not reach closely.

Hope, that subtle glutton, it feeds upon the fair,
I wait by that ethernal gate of sweetn’ss,
Knowing it will not come to my mort’l side,
Angels must have seen my desire and hope.

Resting in the land of viands and wines,
I did not know the ample bread of lands,
Some good some poor like fruit of mountain bush,
It was so unlike the drop I tasted last.

             The birds and I me have often shared,
              In nature's joyous enticing dining-room.

As time moves on and the brave day seeks his hideous nightly bed,
I behold those faded flowers well past their prime,
Mature trees now leafless, denuded and bare are wilting,
As summer’s green is all but gone,
Stolen by autumn’s greedy hand.

But now that autumn is borne away, by that white chilly one,
Among the wastes of time, this years autumn is gone awry,
Like a woman’s portrait painted by nature’s hand,
Hue of hues, unknown by anyone,
Now winter is here, stealing that women’s soul,

Whereupon it looks and I am,
Worried about April’s first born flowers.
Sun’s glorious eye look’d on at winter’s horrid crime,
the plunder of women’s summer soul’s,
Once, that winter was a fair sweet youth.

Gone are those days, as winter’s is showing no remorse
As souls lost, seldom or never found again,
Winter’s crime, like broken glass no cement can redress
Flowers withered, covered by winters snowy shame

Far away from that pale moon and that soft green vale, I so adorn,
Sun’s in silence, looks on through the cloudless sky,
Past that early morn, but still in hiding, as if sh’s just born,
Still she‘s there, and not a stir of air that’s has gone awry;

Along the brooks margin-sand, water flows listless and calm,
Reeds standing tall in that dark sodden ground,
Their cold fingers rise in that clear sky with much aplomb,
But ther’s not much life on this summer's day, that’s now unbound;

The feather’d grass of vales green and forests with boughs we know,
Are hiding forest’s live, that’s like crumbled donjons lie still,
Trees standing in abandoned rows awaiting the lighting show,
Freebooter sparrows come on daring wings and voices shrill;

Sun’s subtly scaling that azure sky, it’s elemental power for us to see,
Her once slumbering eyes now bright as morning dawns,
For foes this beauty has seized day’s splendor with glee,
As she fights with sword and hand ‘gainst night’s dark pawns;

Now that morning’s mist is torn asunder by light’s streak
And castl’s towers are gleaming in her rays
We see the glory and sun’s joy we daily seek
While we seek those larks song’s, pure and glittering on the sunny day

Sparrow hawks cry from that sky filled with angels,
An evening sky that’s darkening and’s falling soon,

As it trembles with all these lamps alight,
The orchards and towns are greedy tonight,

As stars appear like images of swarming bees,
Feeding on this luminous honey that offends heaven’s vines,

Wan moonlight’s spearing that honey sweet,
Knowing autumn’s ill and adorned,

With dead whiteness and ripe fruits,
Stags are groaning beyond that dark tree line,

Filling groves with fallen fruit that no one’s gather,
Leaves are tumbling in the chilling night air,

Falling like tears of forgotten summers days,
Days of ****** poison sweet and chaste,

Now memories of those dreams past.

Sleep, smooth as a glassy tide,
Eternal problems resolved,
Simplified and glorified,
Politics, pure fantasy, unresolved;

But the tide, that swell of the unknown,
Waiting for that fateful daily pause,
As the myriad of airy sprays are blown
Over earth's face, with all her ancient flaws;

As air swirl like muslin, in sea's spray's,
Give me your hand, and let us rest,
In moon's caress and soft rays,
With the night's nocturn's unstressed;

Life’s cruel, with no vintage from other shores,
To fire my tired and jaundiced heart,
Limp hands and flickering eyes without shine,
A body strain’ng to grasps those floating air's parts;

Alas let’s not forget to hope, discreetly,
Our heart, of each of us stays intent and learns,
Dur'ng those calm nights, as moon's rays shine sweetly,
While air and nature fight, fierce and taciturn;

While she's prudent and wise, but's an enemy,
Never show'ng victory, only steel and distant toils,
Fickle in the winter's time, chilly, yet full of serenity,
That air, contrived, unseen, holding my destiny and joy?

Nightly air, brooding, as it floats in moons fading glare, without care.

Calmness at summer’s dawn,
of silence profound and senses ecstasy
when seeing that fleeing fawn,
and wonder’ng about life’ complexity;

I am afraid our life’s ‘re entwined,
as last summer seized our soul,
the silhouette of willow’ wet and lined,
there where the winds weep and roll;

As sunflowers emerge from their night’s mourning,
bursting of golden glow, flowers of fantasy,
on that golden carpet is the warning,
when tender balm’s falls from heaven’s canopy;

As the nightingale sings,
the future will prove sombre,
we don’t know what our slumbering hearts will bring,
at that exquisite hour, when skies are ombre;

Love is filled and clear,
let this silence be without sound,
but, let them hear,
the voice of despair, when no life is found.

In this life and time,
we think we’ve seen all.
And we wander that path sublime,
cherish only the good we recall.

Dur’ng those fleeting day,
there ’re events we don’t see.
We caress life, and its decay,
and our unknow fate, with glee.

Love oft is true in our mind,
as is the beat within our heart.
But, shadows are blind,
fill’d with hate, which tears our soul apart.

Emotion paint that picture,
as we hurtle toward the future, we’ve painted.
That will not last, and isn’t richer,
as the canvas we’ve already acquainted.

We’ve painted greens of joy,
fresh grass beyond compare.
But then comes the age, we’re the old boy,
like chrome, that begins to rust and wear.

The final touches we’ve created with care,
and realize the destination is the gallery above.
But do not let the mind wander too far,
it’s precious to a few, those patterns of love.

On the grass, where day expires
with the first salutes of spectators.
The first twilight has formed, as she retires,
while the doe slips by, as if a caretaker.

Gone are the deities of that morn’s dew,
And the fragrance of sprigs of heather.
Now stars appear as ripe fruit where they grew,
but we and they’ll pass, since all must finally pass.