Autumn song

Alas, I have no simple words to bring
the carefree ways made summer days stand still,
nor vividly relive  the giddy spring
as sun-filled  thrills suspend the winter chill.

Once again, I step upon the crossing roads
tween season loved and one that needs to be,
and spy gaunt specter of  its heavy loads,
a path to joy in stony misery.

I fly and glide with blades made by sun;
its dried bones take wing in final flight.
Each leaf a mark to things that time has done
uncovered green to shades of captured light.

 In the play of life, time writes every part,
its echoes ring the seasons in my heart.

the rare air

sometimes the softest lips  leave a mark,
a sign of passions, a small cherry on skin.
Fading quickly and nearly forgotten
until a casual glance brings back a memory
and the skin reminds us of who we have been

a Lover, a cherished pair, a casual reply to an embrace

Passions can trace time and we can know
the sacrifice of a few cells was nothing in compare
to the rare air that only exists
a moment before touch, on the verge of a kiss.

hallow's evening...

Warm night and starless sky
at the pagan time of harvest; as night neared
the hopes and fears of ended year
hung in a palpable balance, for their walls
unseen between this hope  and that dream
seemed drawn, thinned to the point of nothing.

Everything here could pass to there
souls and evils, loves and un-willed passage
all blended in the thick autumn night.
Oh starless sky, where has Orion wandered
and the great bear? No pole star to guide
the conscience of men, and once again
the tale of the harvest bespeaks
a future fine or famine, and weeks of labor
under bright moon found them alone
all saints and hallow's evening, into night...

They wondered of this newer faith
and the far more ancient ways, as they
blend into a finer truth;
as time and men distill  a lasting elixir.

woman song

a composition without effort
flowed from full red lips
rising above the drum brush
high-hat, downbeat and strings,
soft reeds combine, and her deep wide eyes close
as her curled black hair slides
across bare brown skin, shoulders
that have carried so much for so long
and her delicate back shimmies
to the movement she has made.
I revive moments of joy and sadness
in the pauses of her soft inhales

the corridor showed signs of wear
and the incomplete blessing of skills,
repairs that smoothed away a slow torture of time
The old carpet seemed new
in the wet residue of a woman's effort
rub, clean shampoo, rub clean
and the sinews of her neck express
the giving from her inner form, she pants
low and slow; unbends the back
stiff and tired, her spirit reports, a call
from every aching part...smiling
as the guests pass by so carefree so
un-seeing, as she moans soft...bends again

In the corner room, laughter brings
signs of spring and hints of gathers
before sweet rain; transforms the sultry
heat of late August amid stirrings
 an ancient city in celebration
for the crisis points of an infant nation
all flow, across balcony doors. A window
on a world in flux.
From the deep smile beneath
her deeper furrowed brow the weight
that slips past her sensitive lips
and rises to the walls and floats down the hall
and begins again when skin denied for so long
rediscovers the genesis of woman song.

The sweetness of life, rustled on sheets
the needs of the moment past flowed to the blossom
of a wish...now filled, and another
and she is like the gentle breeze through linens,
she bends like tips of trees. gently 
whispers grow to rush and hush,
in counterpoint to her breathy rhythm
as love holds her close, in the velveteen air.

the winter of small men

winter urges the world
to rest and gather, precious water
and the spirit feeds its need to soak-in
the blessings of seasons past and rest
that eases tomorrow's burden

The spring that rests like a seed
in the spirit's ever fertile soil
sown in the want for more and more life
it is the path to happiness in the reach
for the healing warmth of the sun
and abundance.

So unlike the winter of small men
spare and ungiving, lost in  a fruitless
search for a greater emptiness- the seeming strength
to ignore the suffering of others, and find
an abundance for the few...
so unlike the world, as it cradles all
so unlike the gifts the world has given
to each of you.

Trains...

Footsteps flow like cascades down busy corridors
up and down automatic stairs
luggage-d and billeted, worries and smiles;
the vaulted ceiling fills with noise, and nearby
the rails still beckon the faraway;
still enchant the wanderer's spirit.

The oval dome holds us like a hive
and the constant swell of human sounds
fade into a buzzing hiss.

We settle eyes to eyes
a final touch before leaving
a kiss that will be remembered
as empty air fills your space
leaves wet traces-  your last kiss...

we both turn to go,
carrying so much more than before...

on the wing

two vultures cross bright  morning sky
 contend with a strong southerly wind
that takes one east too low to soar
and the other riding high to the west

Two vultures -a mating pair it seems-
flew close, wing tips nearly touched
until the lift of wind and gust
drove them apart, now hungers
must find them in their separate ways.

Two vultures driven here and thus
do not reconnect as I spy the breakup
of clouds and hatted heads,
of child's balloons and the dreams they held
and the touch of hungers on the wing
such is the work of wind and sun.

As I reach for the cover of my coat to clasp
keep the warmth of my chest, lest it too,
struggled in gusts and hunger, shall be
 the untouched wing.