a short menu...

time paints in vivid strokes
as if a canvas, memory accepts
the colors of given days and blends
like the bend of sun and world's end
where only our idea of God can accept
the gift of the petal's edge

Memory shreds the ordered flow
into places we wish to go, and things we would;
and should is a passport to the space between
the sides of the page, burrow like leaf miners
raise the surface till it breaks, obliterates the fates
that have fallen once.

It is the comings and goings that do not lie;
nor morph into more pleasing substance-
alive or not, in the end...it is a short menu
for such a learned palate, and such eclectic tastes...

short takes...

Morning Gulls

dawn punches holes in early autumn
as day's beginning grows so lazy, it crawls
into an empty Mall parking lot, makes a scene
cackled rattles of gulls long separated from the sea
argue boisterously, noisy rites for trashy sites with
unsightly residue


Morning Man

eyes find cracks and seams, and exogenous lines of water;
last night's rains barely came, but night lightning
and thunders filled the silent spaces of dreams
as movie plots and conversational what-nots
sidled into play; the libido rests not and every hot image
blends into a hidden wish, lust is like this...holds him
like mortar between bricks

Morning Coffee

steam recalls a piece of last night's dream, and moist heat
begs the fog's retreat and day to begin; unwanted
this expenditure of precious time-- it could be better spent
chasing wishes that come so urgently...
after the morning coffee.
After thoughtful sips dwindle into tasteless drips
when the ghosts of forgotten hours, rise
to haunt the day

in my heart ...

You live in my heart, a place of thought

Wherein I cannot deny things

I accept as truths

It is resistant to the gravity of logic and convention;

It has the magic of wishes, and the powers

of divine creation.

I was... before I was born, and to that place

from which I came, I shall truly return,

And You

Will be there with me, matched

in the vault of my treasures, among

the gems and jewels of my existence.

You

who loved me on your splendid nipple

You who lifted me from fragile youth,

and You who loved me through this body

as if it were my eternal soul

All of You

The bricks and mortar

of the house my spirit calls home

the firmament on which I stand

When there is nothing of the world,

and nothing made of matter; there will be

All of You, and the me...All of You have made.

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.

journey...

In morning sun, the clouds hold gold and gray,
its deeper blues relieved by harder graft;
as if to choose which role the day shall play.
Life's journey is a slowly savored draught

As time unfurls the sails, this fragile craft
can glide through wilted hearts, along the way
the rising sun sets upon the fogged waft
to blend into a white and blue bouquet.

As bolder beams become a golden shaft
the will holds firm, and does not fall astray.
The rushing waters calm, in shallows draft
where muddy shores give way to arid clay,

to gaze upon the solemn desert lands,
an ancient river’s womb, these burning sands.

lesser stars

When we love, a seed deep within
begins to blossom, we reach for
a warmer Sun; we grow
in ways we could not otherwise do.
It is the beauty of love, and it rises into life.

When I see the rain of my care
and she becomes a flower in the desert;
a blossom in defiance of pitiless sands
a rebellion upon the waterless earth
a power to be where nothing else might

We hold a  blessing of time
before the fall into night;
it is as the power of tides
upon the greatness of the seas.
It cannot not lift weight of a world
but it changes the face that holds
a thousand pieces of the moon
and the fall of lesser stars.

songbird

Amidst a sudden storm, in pause of wonder,

as lightning fades to soft echoes of thunder,

I hear the wind-filled trees in rustled whispers
through morning fog, the cawing crow call lingers

Where does the honeyed voice of love belong,

and does the silken songbird love the song?

Or does she rise to simply set it free...

As inner fires find bright melody

the final spark of want ignites to light

a moment, which spreads velvet wings to flight.

A deeper spirit bond won’t let her be,

But I think aloud...she is just like me;

A restless silence that could never stay,

 a searching heart that would never obey.