No Talent For Certainty

the stillness can be a path,
  or it can be an end;
the quiet can tear your heart in two,
  or help that heart to mend.

the many colors found in life
  that can’t be said aloud:
the silence can be a blanket,
  or it can be

  a shroud

The darkness stretches overhead,
The water’s cold, forbidding —
Another night in Farrowswhite
To shiver hard, and draw in tight
From ghosts which there’s no ridding.

He looks upon the lonely gloom,
And wonders what she’s thinking:
But answers wash away like brine,
From casting of that heart’s last line
To keep his soul from sinking —

The fantasy of dreaming she
Would take him back in gladness,
That he can see with eyes closed tight
At sunset out on Farrowswhite
Upon the edge

Of madness

He looks back, and he sees the way
He’s traveled to the here and hence;
The byways of desire chased,
The stark dead ends of consequence

A pattern in the choices made,
The each-new-time a once-again:
He sees that character is fate,
And where he is is simply

Who he’s been

If opinions didn’t vary,
If all judgements were the same,
Most of us would never marry
Here, without great wealth or fame

Few would stop, and fewer tarry.
Though the difference seems small,
Some don’t see us ordinary:
Some think that we’re worth

It all

“Physician, heal thyself,” they say.
The moments spiral out and on —
Another endless, twisted day,
With questions come, and answers gone —

And what are we but hope and sweat
Wrapped up tired, failing shells,
And what’s the difference, in the end?
For gain and loss are parallels

When there’s no argument to win,
And little point in speech or rant —
For though we try to lift the world,
We won’t, because we can’t

A world within the puddle lies
The seasons of our memory;
The flag unfurled, the dove that cries,
The latent powers, yet to be —

The yet to be and latent powers,
Crying doves and flags unfurled —
The memory of seasons — ours —
Within each puddle lies

A world