The Callender has my heart.
Moving away and taking it with her as her farewell gift to me.
To whom do I hand the sword to end me of the miserable contemplating,
speculating,
and hoping for the impossible to set itself into motion.
The deed has been done and there remains nothing for me to do.
Yet I come and her beckon and respond to her calls of me.
All the while she still remains in the heart of another man.
Someone else's...

There once was a guy who fell for a girl.

LIGHT ON WATER

Memory cuts up the past
sticks it back together

this the wrong way up
that the right way down

this year
to that sky

the tear away thrown away
callender that lies

here a voice
with no picture

here pictures
without voices

just the sense
of what has been

the real and yet
the not real

stranded now
in whatever year

time refusing to be
pinned down

your laughter stitched
into a burst of bird song

written upon a sky
that will be a forever

a patchwork quilt
of days

the constant writing
over what has past

a  palimpsest
of the mind.

LIGHT ON WATER

Memory cuts up the past
sticks it back together

this the wrong way up
that the right way down

this year
to that sky

the tear away thrown away
callender that lies

here a voice
with no picture

here pictures
without voices

just the sense
of what has been

the real and yet
the not real

stranded now
in whatever year

time refusing to be
pinned down

your laughter stitched
into a burst of bird song

written upon a sky
that will be a forever

a patchwork quilt
of days

the constant writing
over what has past

a  palimpsest
of the mind.

LIGHT ON WATER

Memory cuts up the past
sticks it back together

this the wrong way up
that the right way down

this year
to that sky

the tear away thrown away
callender that lies

here a voice
with no picture

here pictures
without voices

just the sense
of what has been

the real and yet
the not real

stranded now
in whatever year

time refusing to be
pinned down

your laughter stitched
into a burst of bird song

written upon a sky
that will be a forever

a patchwork quilt
of days

the constant writing
over what has past

a  palimpsest
of the mind.