a lyric just born

The wind reminds that tomorrow

Has not been written, it is the pause

At the end of the present breath, the wind

Carries on a journey, like droplets

lifted from the sea, water flowers and raise worms

near dawn and unto a silent Robin …

At dusk beneath the old pin oak,

I heard an unfamiliar call

Looked up to see an old red breast had a new song.

In the heart of evening, the power of the day

Formed thick cloud and I waited

For the winds to bring the change

To thunder and storm… I waited

Knowing the passion of rising clouds.

The windless stillness reminds that tomorrow

Has not been written, it is the pause

In a lyric just born, for the song

Of a new day; when the voice rises like warming sun

A new song of the spirit, new pieces

to fit a mosaic of time

As if we were needed for the Sun

To warm the earth…such imaginings

Borne on winds of wonder

Like the butterfly, we rise with moving air

travel where it will and taste the sweetness

Of many flowers—it is a world seemingly made for

fragile wings and ceaseless hungers, and the winds

leave pathways of scented honey.  

curtained mystery

I can feel heartbeats in the melody
that rise and fall  like the rolling sea
driven and borne of the spirit and love...
the boundless, endless care...
when we dare give all without fear

So much of life is a curtained mystery
amidst the chance of a passing breeze
followed from afar like the constant star
blind to all risk, the heart in full glows
Life is a beaming light amidst deep shadows

When we speak the art of the soul
and though we reach and try to hold
the soft wax we press, but can never possess
a burden never, the weight of a feather
the essence that binds us together, forever.

Venus in the morning...

A grand view of the fall of stars
around the crest of dawn
and the velvet deeps play
into a crescendo of lightened blue
that ends in the fire of morning.

The journey of a day finds its way
across a hurried path into the east;
 first the eyes and then the heart
grabbed by a moment of lonely Venus...

Speak to me of love
as distant stars have faded, lost
in the wall of morning, yesterdays long-past
find voice in the mirage of coming light.
You who have seen the dawn of ages,
and death of epochs, each folded
into the edge of endless nights.

You, who have seen the fire of love
grow cold, and the ice of neglect
cover vacant hearts,
and known the point of longing
when the unspent purse grows thin
Rise to remind
that love is ever like the morning-
it is the peace of darkness, and the
matchstick  of a coming day.

among night fires...

I was born beneath a dying star
its deep red glows from the past, afar
a light set free on a far flung  journey
Among night fires alone in the cold
defiant flames that yet grow old

the wane of life counts me from the start
down fleeting joys and pain, fill the heart
as if wind-born sands falling through my hands.
The lash of forgiveness leaves the deepest scar
I race against the night, beneath a dying star.

pot shards

Drifted through yesterday
and the way I made-up many days past,
and reworked them to suit the new filter
placed over the distillation of time;

I drifted further, into the places
beyond the easy handles of yes and no.
Falling softly into places
where fears and loving make crossed currents
that pull me under.

Then I learn once again
to begin to breathe inside bubbles;
I find courage to renew
the birth-time notion to chew water,

and in this mix of twelve and six-
inverted hours and powerless to stop-
the urges that spring forth.

I stand in greater need of forgiveness
but there is no one here to absolve;
all are implicit and indebted-ly involved,
totally invested in the seamless dream.

When it is all done, and we enter
the lasting silence of sleep, then
life becomes the broken-pot shards;
the undisturbed dust surrounding them
make a picture...for the final cover.

fitful sleep

In the older ways, when in far simpler days,
faith was easy; spun beneath a gentle sun
a greener world- its greater evils
seemed long done - and the
reward of virtue was simply...itself.

Now, comes the time when faith is hard
because it can neither pardon waste's gravity,
nor explain depths we can see- precious life
cast aground blithely, like spoiled water.

Then one must see, for all the things men do,
the errors of the present and failings they rest upon,
for the whole of our arts are in the takings.
We spill precious existence as if it were wastes
Yet, we can restore neither life nor water,
cannot create air nor constitute the fishes
that sometimes fill the boats.

For all that we can do
brings little of that we need.
We yet prosper by gift; for all pretense,
mankind  is still a vagrant seed
fallen into fertile ground to grow.

Now, we take more than given,
by depth of greed we foul the air
and curse the ground, and faith
takes a trembling refuge
in fitful sleep and troubled dreams.