The Silent Hour

The silent hour comes, and when it’s so,
We gaze upon an ever-changing flow
That we can’t comprehend, or quite take in:
But where there are no answers, still we go.

When all the things we thought would give us sway
Within the silent hour slip away,
Then frail and tiny as we are, we stand:
The heritage within, our DNA.

Not every hat’s a crown, nor chair a throne,
And sometimes, weariness strikes heart, and bone,
But do not fear the silent hour’s call:
The stillness has a beauty of its own.

One Old Couple

We’d, in summer, see them sitting
In their yard, beyond the hollow,
From our bikes, the rain permitting:
Smiling then, their eyes would follow,
Children done with summer play,
Heading home at fade of day.

One old couple: wrinkled, graying,
Side by side with shadows growing:
That their hearts for us were praying,
We’d no way of really knowing.
But, our youth was not such blindness,
We could not detect their kindness.

Then, new summer on the canyon,
She was in the chair alone, now:
And we saw that her companion,
Must have died. We knew it, somehow.
All us boys took off our caps then,
Age eleven, or perhaps ten.

So she mouthed a thankful greeting;
We, his honor guard, departed.
Hearts that grow with one less beating,
Come from what that first heart started.

Weeds grow thick now in the hollow,
Mockingbird, and jay, and swallow,
Singing: “Life’s a storm, a torrent:
Love’s forever — people aren’t.”

A Minute On Time

If I can build, with all this time,
A life where I’m
Less truculent,
It’s time well spent.

But time’s a changing currency:
Not prone to flee
The way it would
When things were good.

So while I’ve time to quarrel now,
I find, somehow,
To “win”, at best,
Is pointlessness

Black and Wide

Without, within — from whence comes all the noise?
The inner world is sketchy, black and wide:
To draw it right, you must have equipoise.
The lines need only be as you decide:
No other voice can question, or deride —
So build the landscapes where you’d love to dwell,
And make a temple of your citadel.

Within, without — these words are much the same.
The pale and thin becomes the black and wide;
The waters murmur softly, “none to blame –”
But other whispers follow, amplified.
A loving heart is still the truest guide
To where you’d love to — want to — need to be,
The seeing soul’s lost sanctum by the sea.

Kyrielle at Dawn

Across, beyond, and in between,
This is the place where we exist;
These limits we can’t contravene —
  For now, we gaze into the mist.

We see the sunlight on the rise,
But with the day, will it persist?
So much that seems is in disguise:
  For now, we gaze into the mist.

From long ago, the voices tell
The struggles of which lives consist:
To be — it means, to be unwell —
  For now, we gaze into the mist.

In music, and in memory,
In those last-held, and those first-kissed,
Are love and hope, life’s treasury —
  For now, we gaze into the mist.

A Sunset Rondel

A spiraling of evening light,
A quick declension into dark;
The murky and the recondite,
A glint from off the curving arc —

A staring, past the point of sight;
About to finally disembark —
A spiraling of evening light,
A quick declension into dark.

And though the leaf be fastened tight,
The dying day will leave its mark:
On those who guard a lost monarch —
A spiraling of evening light,
A quick declension into dark.

Rispetto By The Water

The salt air in your nostrils, as
The waves lap out their lullaby;
The soul that is, is one that has
A right to give up on the “why”

For maybe, it’s not ours to know.
It will, it must, it needs be so —
The way we feel, but cannot guess,
A pattern that is patternless

An Evening Sonnet

How many angry words are too soon said?
He reworks all of these, his long mistakes —
They rattle and they stab inside his head;
They gather into pools, and sometimes lakes.

Escaping does not quite seem possible;
The pools too deep, the lakes uncrossable —
And so they form a sort of slow revue:
The when and how, the why and where, the who —

So is this what a man becomes at last?
A parody? An anchor in the sand?
Or finally, just might he understand
That there’s no peace till there’s peace with the past —

    To sit and hold, to breathe, and to believe,
    And fade away like shadows of an eve