The Journey Past

It’s everything we think
That makes a mind;
It’s what we cannot see
That makes us blind.

It’s all a lot of ballyhoo
And fuss;
The world was never so,
And ever thus —

It is a type of dream,
A sort of trance;
The journey past
Our own recalcitrance —

For what is never written’s
Never read,
And what we cannot say
That needs

Be said

colors of eternity

i can’t abide modernity;
i’m not in the fraternity
of those who mask
a loathsome task
in joyful co-paternity

i do not like the world of spin,
and being (always) taken in;
for light is light
and right is right
and all the rest is noise and din.

so hence, my taciturnity
on what’s embraced most fervently —
to show constraint,
and save my paint
for colors of

Once Upon A Moon

He told her, once upon a moon,
That “love’s a true-and-always thing” —
They watched the curtains turn to night,
And heard the song the first-birds sing —

She wishes now, upon a star,
That he’d float back on some balloon;
But all is loneliness, and cloud,
And once, was really once
Upon a moon

Dreaming About My Own Wife

It wasn’t true. It had to be

Some sort of dreamed up fantasy;

But then I wake up, suddenly,

And find you’re still here next to me


It’s strange recalling early days:

It is slow motion, like a haze,

There’s you beneath the sun’s last rays

Those days we set the world ablaze


But now it’s dark, and you’re asleep.

It’s strange, the memories we keep,

That come so strong, so bright, so clear,

And make me glad that you’re

Still here