of angels

Wounded too
the soul can be

more fragile
than even the sea

for the longest time
I have maintained

a pair of ears
could heal

what the tongue
could not

sigh

my vision, however
has been rather shortsighted

and my understanding
incomplete

and I feel as a traveller
who upon the road

comes to a vista
of horizons golden

the view
forever changed

from the inside,
the work of hands unseen

forever and always there
if I had but the eyes;

for along with the ears,
my faithful companions

we two came upon
a sight

glorious and divine
golden as lions

in the gloaming
gleaming as the placid lake at dawn

and the soul reached
nay, lifted

rose not in speech
but of eye

and not of eye
alone

but of finger
of lightning

in a touch
of love

in a look
of the eternal

in a look
of the divine

of angels
that walk the earth

what then

A hand on the side of a cliff
seeks a hold, a crevice
upon which to lift
to haul and hoist our temporal frame

What is a job
or a child
our faith and beliefs
if not a thin ledge

What are friends
if not the belay
the rope
the hope and encouragement

and if we find ourselves
on the side of the cliff
and the hand can find
neither grip, nor fissure, nook or slit

what then

when the rope grows slack
and the clouds multiply their number
in gun-smoke anger
herded with the whip of wind

what then

echos

what then

mocks

what then

Ludic Days

I listen to adults
having adult conversations
about adult matters
and adult concerns
and I want no part
of the worlds they construct
the worlds they haunt
the worlds that hang
like leaden cloaks
on deluded shoulders
worries worn as epaulettes
cynicism
as a badge of honor
bitter negativity
the secret handshake

I listen to adults
having adult conversations
about adult matters
and adult concerns
and I want no part
of the worlds they construct
the worlds they haunt
the worlds that hang
like leaden cloaks
on deluded shoulders
worries worn as epaulettes
negativity
as a badge of honor
the secret handshake

I listen to adults
having adult conversations
about adult matters
and adult concerns
and I want no part
of the worlds they construct
the worlds they haunt
the worlds that hang
like leaden cloaks
on deluded conceptual
shoulders
worries
worn as epaulettes
negativity
as a badge of honor
the secret handshake

I listen to adults
having adult conversations
about adult matters
and adult concerns
and I want no part
of the worlds they construct
the worlds they haunt
the worlds that hang
like leaden cloaks
on deluded shoulders


If this is life
I want no part
of life

If this is existence
I curse
the hand
that set me
in motion

If this is my day
the sky holds no sun
and the rain provides
no nourishment
and I look upon
the world
as
a
homesick
visitor

Give me children
the wisdom imparted
before adult concerns
steal them away
and the ludic days
of wonder
and
discovery
where
joy
is
the
norm

Peace

I saw the divine face
peace personified
and as if a wave
washed over me
everything I knew
fell
fell away

The falling was not
a falling away
but a falling toward
a falling into
the divine pool
where everything is clear
everything is
just is
perfectly
is

The breathing is all
a gentle breathing of life
of being breathed
and held
and cleansed
of all
that is not

The peace is as a light
from within
a knowing
an intelligence
a force without force
a power exponential
of arms holding
without arms
of eyes looking
without eyes
of a truth so bright
so light
so white
there is a floating
without floating
a knowing without
mind
a beating without
heart
a touch without
fingers
and what was before
is as the night
before dawn

to be a boy

nestle to my bosom
and dress me with your legs
and make me happy
to
be
a
boy

A Coat of Dust

I have a metal and glass desk

the glass always has dust

just like now

I stare at the dust

and I wonder

is this what they will see

a laptop closed

a few pens scattered

and a light coat of dust

the vision is clear

there is no doubt

I have seen the future

a few (uncomfortable) mumbles

a bit of (awkward) staring

and a light coat of dust

that’s how it will be

Fifths Imperfect

Riding the bow
in stokes long
and minor

the moments play
me

luthier, my lord
get thou
here

bowed on four
tuned fifths
imperfect

pitched high
let not
my cry

though smallest
be
deceive thee
now

Casting Pen

Write and release

write and release

write some more

and into the gentle

waves of light,

release

I would like to

to look back

I would like to see

the words

in flight

I can't

the fear

too great

the doubt

too fast

so

I write

faster

and

release

quicker

casting pen

forward

forever forward

in imagination's

blue

well

if only . . .

I rotate

my ice

twirling the

time

if perchance . . .

amber lifted

glass gaveled

on wood

I could

with lance

do the

same

with

my

days

Sledged

A landscape of rocks
I see them everywhere
in my yard
in my garden
in pictures
under my feet

today, however
they seem different
not the rocks of yesterday
not rocks like I have ever known
they feel as brothers
for I feel as a rock
under foot
under hammer
sledged

sitting, I am
sitting like a rock
pounded I feel
pounded by . . .
take your pick
or axe
or pickaxe
ball pean
or
just a peon
I am
sitting
being hammered
broken
and to my rocks
I sing to my brothers
carry
me
home

Still Silence

How does a thing end

In silence

cold

first the voice
then the eyes


a still stagnant pool


still as the widow
before the casket
silent as the view
from within

When I stood before
the bed
of my dying father
I wanted
but three words

Still

do

Of Sun and Sand

I saw the world

in a head of hair

I know that sounds

strange

as strange as it

seems to me to say

but I did

and I can't say that

I didn't

for the sight I saw

saw me

and the light I sought

found me

and in that bounce

of curl

in the fullness of

shine

in the hues of

sun and sand

rolled as waves

across your

forehead

I saw a world

complete

and then

as if the clouds

were curtains

I saw you smile

the smile of angels

and I felt a falling

a falling away

of me

of that idea of there

being a me

as a wave falls away

back into the ocean

a return to

wholeness

a return to

sanity

I felt as the beach

upon the day

caressed gently

by waters warm

serenaded by gulls

a choir in swarm

of wings spread

of wings white

and beaks of golden

yellow

a family of porpoises

glimmers on the sea

playful in swim

the way of things

large and small

no one had to tell

the mom

what to do

or the children

how to play

and I feel now

in that bounce

and reflected light

of a head turned slightly

and a curve not seen

seen

that I need no instruction

to float

upon

the

day

Sigh

I walked those grounds
not in twenty years
sacred in my mind
those ten years
I did

To think of your tears
caused by me
upon a place I love
so far from home
is more
than I can bear

How can I hug
through the miles
of distance
How can I wipe tears
I can't reach
or know
how your heart beats
when I can't hear
my own
the beat is so loud

sigh

So, I toss words
into the well of you
hoping to hear an echo
a sound that tells
me you hear
my heart
you accept my little
pebbles
and treasure them
as I did
in the selecting
in the tossing
in the hope
of a heart
reaching
tremulous

My parchment bleeds
mixing with tears
running letters
a blurry mess
of thoughts slipping
into puddles
of breath escaping
in gulps
of a head spinning
faint

I don't hear your words
no more than I hear the knife
plunging into my chest
and ripped forth
I see them
Crystal clear
my movie HD
wrapping
suffocating
memories evoked
pain rising
from the depths
long since
sunk
buried
gone
or
so I thought

I didn't ask for this
nor this poem
It lives in your breath
uttered urgent
to have
the pain
confusion
codified

Will you cry anew
tears hoarded
hidden
behind lies
deception
a life lived in shadows
of faded dreams
and tattered hopes
a cruel mess
seductive
pulling
a private
quicksand

I reach forth across time
stepping over the chasm
of a life lived in flashes
of late night doors
of breath not fresh
of sheets torn
and what is taken
is more than flesh
more than the wet pillow
the sniffles snuffled
the words swallowed
the anger suppressed
a bitter cocktail
forced
of hair yanked
of dead eyes

Upon this soil
faint
I can see it
I can feel it
alive still
and I know
I know
what must be done
the road that must be travelled
I have no choice
as sun to flower
as water to world
as the fruited teat
to cries in the dark
I am pulled
narrow my vision
to pour myself
into
a vase
empty
a vase
beautiful
a vase
I
can
flower
and
make
smile
again

Clearing the Canvas (unfinished tripe)

I look for you

lost as a puppy

abandoned

on the interstate

my tail still wags

I still hold hope

sniffing the ground

as cars fly past

no one stops

the suns slips away

and where there was warmth

a blanket of cold descends

__________

When I was young

I didn't much care

for the taste of beer

As I get older

the taste of a cold beer

gets better and better

as my memory

of childhood dreams

grow fainter and fainter

__________

Remember

re

mem

ber

Re-mem-ber

I feel dis

mem

bered

when all I want

to do

is forget

and the wheels inside

have a different

agenda

and I remember

we don't

have

two lives

to live

Slipping

I picked up a highlighter
of which I have dozens
in every room
and I looked upon it
as an instrument
from the past

That's when I knew
life was slipping
away
When the will to have
a future
holds no taste
and the sleep
of the dead
seems as brothers
reunited

My Cup Inverted

The sky is pale blue

and cloudless

the horizon bending slightly

at the edges

I watch dust dance like devils

with nothing to do

From a tower I sit

my cup inverted

my metal heavy

rope gone

clapper hanging limp

lips without cry

only the ring of memory

remains

I wear a coat of dust

warmer by the days

impotent without hands

silent without legs

hanging from my neck

watching a quiet horizon

and wondering

how I ever

let

you

go

(what is a bell

without ring

what am I

without you)

As Rain to Ocean

I need to heal
not in an hour
or day
or even weeks
it's not that kind of healing

Can you hear me;
not the words
Do you know to be
and not to do;
to listen
as rain
to ocean, healing;
healing as leaves
to tree
as the lips of lovers
parting slowly
before fingers
warm
and eyes
reflecting

can I be heard
without speaking

seen
without looking

held
without reaching

loved
beyond conception

__________

the working draft first version:

I need to heal
not in an hour
or day
or even weeks
its not that kind of healing

Can you hear me?
not the words
Do you know to be
and not to do?
to listen
as the rain
heals the ocean
as the leaves
heal the tree

can I be heard
without speaking
can I be held
without reaching
can I be loved
without conception

The Way Home

Across the miles and through the forest of pine
on a route as much memory as asphalt
of music listened eight hours at a time
as thoughts of loved ones in disrepair
played inside my head
of tears shed upon the images
slipping away
some eight hours hence
some eight hours away

This route between homes
a tether of black and orange
and speeding cars
of leavings and comings
of adventure and closings
of a father's anger
put to rest
and a grandmother's pain
lingering on

pulling me south

The road never judged
The road never brayed
it gave me what I needed
a way back home

and I sit this morning
guilty
knowing I never thanked the road
which is my way of saying
I've forgotten we live not alone
and to touch the road
is to touch the universe
as the universe has always
touched
me
back

Blurry Days

Some days know not

the passage of time

milestones

joy and tears

but mostly, it seems

tears

blurry days

They live as if alive

and the memory,

vivid as yesterday

forever

yesterday

moments laid as poetry

in a life of prose

Endings mostly

Relationships mainly

man and beast

friend and foe

lovers

and those we never loved

but wished we had

feeling our life

the less

in pages

never

written

The pain of loss

tentacles entrenched

spread, embed, become

a life

competing

growing

never waning

never paling

never the less

always the more

this pain of night

that rolls into day

of ice in glass

and glass of eye

shards of memory

reflecting

the jagged edges

of things said

and

things

never

given

light

Robins and Doves

Robins come by ones
Doves always by twos and
the squirrels
well
they just come like hellions

As I sit quietly
and just listen
I see a world
that works
whether I do
or not

Cardinals, wrens, titmouses
sparrows, doves and robins
and occasionally,
the lone red-headed
woodpecker

If you look
and listen
you notice the most
obvious thing
which because you
had not noticed
before
makes you smile

each bird has a
very distinctive
flight signature

if you listen carefully
after awhile
you don't need eyes
to see the birds
but I will tell you this
I'd rather be a dove
than a robin

Plant the Standard

the center

of your universe

is

not

the center

of my universe

so

be

careful

when you plant the standard

of

truth

in

your

soil

Weariness

I feel the weariness
in eyes that
see not

what they
used
to
see

(are not
what
they
used
to
be)

or,
perhaps

have simply
seen too much
for a heart
too sensitive
in the accumulation

of quiet
yelling

sediment layered
in undefined
uncomprehending
vague
anger

vague as
the forest
in morning mist

The weight rims
cantaloupes
quarter moons
my waning light

some days are better
than others

this
is
not
one
of
them

The Years

Feeling old in a cup of coffee

lost in the pale orange rising

of burning light

eight minutes fresh

of Bradford pear trees

wearing their snowy coats

of bloom

of passing an elementary school

that fifteen years ago

my engaged daughter

was waiting in pigtails

and an oversized backpack

I sat in my car

condensation on the windows

engine warming

mug in hand

Beside me

a son

with a water bottle

his iPod

and hair unkept

a silent protest

and I thought of my father

and his cough in the mornings

a signature to say he was old

and I was not

that he was out of touch

and I knew better

that his days were numbered

and mine just beginning

and I thought as I sat in the car

what my son must have been thinking

as the aroma of my coffee

filled the cabin

He didn't have to say it

and probably didn't even think it

but I felt old

with my mug

needing my coffee

and I wondered

where all the years had gone

Day Breaking

I sit and wonder at the wonder of you
which, in and of itself
seems to say nothing
so let me put it this way:

You are not here
and I am not there
and the miles between us
are as an ocean not sailed

Still I wonder how your day is
and, vanity aside,
if you've thought of me
as much as I've thought of you
and if the feeling I've felt
is a language you know

and, I ponder the depth
of your eye
and whether you see
as I see
and know
as I know
and I wish upon wishes
that I am wrong
for I long to be held
by eyes that see
beyond what I see
and embraced by a heart
that knows a country
I've not seen

Then, there are days
where I simply wonder
how your hair looks
in the morning light
when the day is breaking
and with fingers quick
I hold my heart
for it is only the day
I can bear to part


Reading and Commentary (<---click the link)

A Breathing

I walked outside last night

and sat with the ocean

a storm coming

winds whipping

and the surf

pounding

just pounding

the

submissive

shore

relentless

relentless

in slap

inhale

gasp

roll

slap

the sound

almost

human

sharp

distinct

a breathing

in

and

out

spume riding

waves

rolling

in the dark

racing up the shore

iridescent alabaster

in

pearly moonlight

and

in that moment

alone

lost in the thoughts

of

heart and loin

of

dream and wish

of

lust and longing

I couldn't help

but think

of

you

and

I wondered

if

you missed me

as

much as

I

was missing

you

Running Errands

I was out running errands today

and as I was driving

I thought of picking you up for lunch

of you sitting in my car

that first time

and I imagined what you would be wearing

how you would smell

how you would move

and sit

and hold your head

and smile

and how you would sound

if you talked fast or slow

if you were shy or not shy

and I wondered what your hands would look like

how they would move

the fingers

strong or delicate

and I thought of what I would be thinking

which was of kissing you

and I wondered where that would happen

when it would happen

how nervous I would be wondering if you wanted to kiss me too

and I thought of that first movement

when I leaned in

my eyes on your eyes

hyper sensitive to your every move and reaction

looking for any resistance

any hesiation

and then the brushing of lips

softly

just touching

just the lips

as if we could feel our hearts beat in our lips

hear them in our ears

and I would want

just for a second

to feel your breath

on my lips

to feel that warmth

the softness

the desire

then I imagined your hands reaching for my head

pulling me in

your fingers in my hair

and that is where I melted

How

How do I hold
you

How does a
thimble
hold
the ocean

How does the
night
hold
the universe

How does a
tree
hold
the leaves

How does the
finite
hold
the infinite

I don't know
but I know
that
I don't know

and if you smile
I can live
on that
and if you open
your arms
I can
let
go

and if you can
hold me
in my silence
and speak
to me
in fingers
and lips
and arms
that hold
to hold

then
my puddle
fears
not
the rain

Accounts

From light to darkness

and from darkness to light

love seeks and knows

without a tally

without a score

as a mother her day

accounts

by smiles in her pocket

and hugs hung

with the coats

under dirty boots

and worn mittens

as the wool of lamb

scratches

cheeks

already

rosy

Vagaries: A Day

I want one day
just one
without the words
launching it
to say:
we need
to do
this
and
we need
to do
that
Don't you think?

There are days
and sometimes weeks
where if I could put my hands
in a drawer
and lock them away . . .

I'd be better off


I would gladly die a thousand deaths
than live the day
this day
again

There are days that change
nothing
and
there are days that change
everything

This morning
I walked out my front door
to fields and meadows
blooming hues
of buzzing golds
and brilliant blacks
floating
sex
machines
banshees
riding
roughshod
you could almost
hear
the roses
shriek
and
the tulips
look
the
other
way

Damn
I
was
jealous


The evening
this evening
the landscape
is as the moon
grey
barren
cratered
the sound of nothing
whistling
as
nothing
whistles
the
sound
of
death
after
death
has
gone

Imagine if your family
lived on the moon
and each night
you watched them rise
and wave their arc
across your sky
and imagine if
night after night
the gentle rising
the humble falling
light reflected
life alive
was
your
life
And imagine if
on this night of
nights
the sky of black
remained
without its pearl
its alabaster coin
and where there
was life
was
no
more

Fall your nuded knees
upon the uncooked rice
and bleed your blood for me
the blood a father bleeds
when the idea
dies

When I die
I want to die alone
as I have lived
let the breeze
strum the strings of grass
and the trees whistle
as wood in wind

How does it feel
to be a house of cards
collapsed
your life
once built
once mighty
hopes and dreams
gone
How does it feel?

It doesn't

life slipping away
no feeling
nothing to hold on to
nothing to foothold
no belay
not numb
not nothing
this is it
the door opens
only
I don't see the light

Sadness is a smile
you can't manage
though you see them
everywhere

Banshees

This morning

I walked out my front door

to fields and meadows

blooming hues

of buzzing golds

and brilliant blacks

floating

sex

machines

banshees

riding

roughshod

you could almost

hear

the roses

shriek

and

the tulips

look

the

other

way

Damn

I

was

jealous

662. Knight Repleted

Trev recalls in verse a night at the cottage as Em sleeps quietly by his side.
Translated from the original Hynerian.



rainy here
and cold
good night to be under the covers
to fall asleep in a spoon
curve on curve
merlon and crenel
the warmth of flesh
the breath of desire
whispers as fingers
lobes as candy
parting of lips
and dance of tongues
playful and darting
firm in repair
of hips moving
without command
and legs twinning
as vines laid bare
the air humid
and sheets as dunes
midnight watching
as clocks tune
and a hand traces
like a snake
between valleys
and over like rakes
and we speak
in sighs
and tremulous lips
as eyes half baked
bend and dip
and upon the touch
does back doth arch
an ancient art
as fingers part
the words just flow
and I see you there
your skin in light
warm and glow
as shadows dance
on walls not low
and fingers prance
to much delight
and I do my best
to reach your height
for the night knows
many a lovers
but none yet
as under our covers
The pearl I peek
a twirl I seek
to see you look
neck's divine crook
your legs as tents
upon my shade
I trace your tenderness
and watch your chest
as heave tells me
I like this sea
so my hand reaches
for one who teaches
a smile I seek
a moment to sneak
dreams of smells
and textures
of hair and skin
and sparkle in eye
of curves on cotton
and bodies aged
plied by hands
taking their time
and moans as bells
tolling the night
and necks craned
and pillows drained
as hair rivers
the heavenly smile
and where one beckons
the other calls
and where one opens
the other arrives
a greeting new
a kiss below
petals aflame
parting they must
for what is natural
commands the lust
as an intake of breath
signals union
and eyes as saucers
rimmed in starlight
strain to see
a sight most welcome
of one
into
other
the gates be rushed
and the courtyard taken
of spoils and such
all fair maidens
of skirts pleated
soon to be
of knight repleted

Dis-eased

The assault comes

in little questions

and subtle looks

and sometimes

in the query not posed

as if, seen by all

but invisible to the mirror

a patina

has formed

the ground, it seems

is covered

in egg shells

and you never

said a word

as if by instinct

they knew

You feel dis-eased

inside and out

and somehow

and someway

everyone knows

a language of eye

perhaps posture

of head bowed

however slight

of shoulders stooped

of hands idle

and eyes that just stare

quiet as windows

vacant of a light

conspicuous by its absence

as the lighthouse

not lit

and you fear the sea

not sailed

the waters

not fished

and the mournful lapping

of ocean sympathy

replacing

the deck bell

Invisible visible neon

that's what you are

bright as light at night

loud as lightning in sight

this is your life

changed in an instant

changed in a phone call

and words from a textbook

seem less academic

words I wish not

upon friend or foe

Chapter 7

Authenticity

I am, it seems
built differently
and, it appears
I feel, a friction
not imaginary

Still, I seek
I think, what
we all seek

authenticity

that stands the light
of day
and can hold the dark
of night
and apologizes
for neither

I see it not
as courage
but necessity
for I am either
all that I am
or
I'm dying the death
of
pieces
just shards
of a facade
too cumbersome
to maintain

Pretending

When I shit myself

I really don't want

people standing around

pretending

they

gave

a

shit

in

the

first

place

Hauntings

There is a question that haunts me
and I wonder if I am alone
for it feels that way
but I've been wrong
so many times
before

If I were to leave,
would anyone notice
would anyone care
would the gouge upon
the earth
meet with more than
a handful of feet
would the flowers kiss
what lips refused
would the rain show
c
a
r
e
where tears wouldn't
dare
am I just taking up space
filling time
living in a bubble
hardly worth
a dime

661. Quotes: 9

Sometimes it is not about who is right, but what is right; and almost always, what is right is not a number, but a person.

Von recalling a conversation with Zeke

The Mornings

I have a confession to make
it is not my fault
never was my fault
I've got almost forty years
of evidence to prove it

The mornings are hard

Always have been
young or old(er)
in shape or out
good times or bad
doesn't matter

Don't blank with me
in the morning
Not a threat
nor a warning
as my oldest daughter
would say
Just a fact

Coffee helps
a necessary addiction
discovered when I
was nineteen
when the world
demanded its due
under industry
and an alarm clock

But helps does not fix
or correct
or change
The mornings are hard
always have been
and I suppose
always will be

But there is a grace
one could say, perhaps
In the hour or two
of general grogginess
when my mind is not in gear
and my body is crying its age
and the dogs are licking my face
like something is wrong
I can write
write in a way
that the mind in gear
can't

Crazy it seems
I can't interact with you
because I say
I'm not awake
and this is true
but I can write
and from a distance
I look the arse
a jackassary
for if I can write
why can't I talk
interact
engage

I don't have an answer
I ask that you trust me
when I say
The mornings are hard
please don't blank with me

I Find Some Comfort

I go to the bookstore

and I sit in the literature section

watching

just watching as people

walk by

passing Tolstoy

and Dickinson

and even William too

and I find

some comfort in that

660. Quotes: 8

I believe in all my heart that one can listen a soul to health; and, if you were to ask a heart to what purpose, it would smile and listen and hold all, not some, not just the good, but the whole, just listening, healing in non-judgmental attention. For this is the work of hearts.

Quote attributed from Papa to Kyra

The Last Orange

Most everything

has a last time

But I don't live

as if this is true

Am I just stupid

or in denial

sometimes

I think

both

If tomorrow

you gave me an orange

and you told me

this is it

the last orange

you will

ever

hold

ever

smell

ever

taste

How

I ask

How would you . . .

That

is how

I

want

you

Some Days

Some days
better to keep
the ink
in the well

For the piffle
that gets scribbled
sins against
ink and paper alike

My apologies
to both
and all the hands
I've dishonored

for what does
one thing touch
that does not touch
another

Tell me
if you know
can I touch you
and not touch
the world

Brothers Now

I feel as the squirrel

in my backyard

happy to sit in the sun

satisfied with a few seeds

we are brothers now

me and him

he reports to no one

and right now

neither do I

There is a peculiar

freedom

in unemployment

I don't have to answer

my phone

Or make a list

of who to call

I can sit in the sun

under my japanese magnolia

and watch the blooming petals

fall in the natural order

decorating my ground

with the most fragrant

pinks and whites

a carpet for kings

like me

and the squirrel

my brother

you see

My days are my own

and my hands to labor

my own backyard,

the birdbath is clean

and the leaves raked

feeder full

to the delight of dove

and like

I feel a freedom

you see

of coming and going

as my wrens do

stretching my wings

forever caught in this moment

beyond past

beyond future

free as free can be

free as the birds and squirrels

in my backyard

the taste is pure

and clean

as the sun is bright

and the breeze is lean

I've been given my freedom

you see

not such a bad thing

just

to be

Wings and Diamonds

A few years ago
when my son was younger
and I less wise
a lesson she painted
as if fingers in my mind
rearranging my neurons
in a way
I want to say
changed more
than just
my day

She was young
white blouse cotton
and tight as,
as the smile I could
not avoid;
her hair short
glimmering, shimmering black
like a lake
midnight
moonlit

We walked in
my son and I
he with his
me with mine
and the sight before us
that Saturday morn
was as sights are
each upon

Fumble he did
to set up his stand
music unfolded
by those little hands

I watch the two
in fear I felt
of his recital
and
of my own
heart thumping
vital

With each mistake
his nervous hands made
her voice calmed
and soothed
his fragile nerves
my esteem grew
of what was
and my dreams bloomed
of what never would

She was young
or so my eye observed
and she smiled the smile
of youth yet wise

with each commendation
a wisdom not lost
in the wash of time
a memory so strong
she lives in rhyme
a girl I once knew
who touched two hearts
that much is true
I think she knew

we knew not her name
but all the same
she twirled our world
he and I
father and son
touched I think
by wings of heaven
and
a diamond wink

Windows

I often think about windows

those moments in time

when a thing is possible

then and only then

And I wonder why

I think there will be

second

chances

that the opportunity of today

will be there tomorrow

for I know

if I don't bed the lass

when the lass is to be bedded

the bed wished warm

will remain but the wish

and only the memory

will remain warm

Wales

There was a place
where the grass was green
and the stone was old
where the sea was steel gray
and the skies pregnant
always

A place where wood was warm
polished, aged in time
and cheeks rose
as blossoms
on skin bone white
as amber ale flowed
between friends

At the time
the time seemed like
most times
as if today
would be tomorrow
and the bread and wine
would be plentiful
as the hours
and the minutes

We played cards
and laughed
and dreamed of days
when our number
multiplied
our esteem
honored

I dream of those days;
and Wales
forever
will remain green
and old
and a place
as treasured
as the cliffs
we climbed
and the seas
we swam
and the fires
we warmed
and the girls
I'd wish
I'd taken