The Evening Cries

The evening cries,
But I don’t understand her;
Her voice is faint,
Yet echoes past the waves –

Magenta spreads
Where oft we would meander —
In murmurs soft,
Like whispers over graves

And as the purple
Sun sets in its glory,
I find that you
Are back, and on my mind

The evening cries,
Disconsolate with mourning:
As I, I think,
Might also be

Days of Beauty and of Youth

Days of Beauty and of Youth

There, the perfect life:
The days of beauty, and of youth —
When you believe the image
Then you never know the truth
No matter where you look,
No matter what you think you see:
Each human life is full
Of misstep, hurt, and misery —
So, you see someone now who has
The whole world on a plate;
But do not see them in the night
Alone, disconsolate
There, in perfect youth,
Whate’er the problems, they’ll be small —
When you believe the image
You won’t see the truth
At all

That Door

If that door never opens
It’s locked for good one day;
And dreams, and jobs, and memories
Just up and go away

That door is watched here, daily.
They count the times it swings:
And if the number gets too low,
They’re on to other things

Then one day, we want choices,
But all of them seem poor –
For things were better, once, but we
Just never used that door —

If that door never opens
It’s locked for good one day;
And dreams, and jobs, and memories
Just up and go

A Gypsy Dream

My friend, the gypsy, shared a dream
Of how she’d found a carnival,
A type of old tradition where
The best of their technology
Was brought to bear to try to make
A wonderland of lights and sorcery.

Where lovers could walk hand-in-hand
And feel excitement from the crowd,
As she did; with some unknown he
Whose face was handsome, though unseen.
But still the glow of love was there,
Among the scents of summer on the pier.

But love, she said, is not her way:
At least, the way that many think
That love should be: just one for good –
A night, a day, a month, a year,
That’s fine, but even in a dream,
She knew the carnival must have
An end – a letting go – a final turn.

She stared away, in shadows, then
She said, “I’m built for wandering.
The hands I hold are many, as
I make my way across this life.
I’m sure that dream was just my truth
As written on my neurons in the night.”

I watched her kiss the sunset, and
The gleaming colors in her eyes
As she arose to meet the night,
And leave me in a cafe seat
To ponder what a gypsy thing
That lives and hearts are in the very end,

That lives and hearts are in the very end.

The Business of Poetry

I’ve been a poet time + times,
I’ve made exactly zero dimes.
I’ve seen more wise things said by mimes,
Although I have penned many rhymes —

I’m not quite sure if “poetry”
Is a cognate for “poverty”,
But both are much like puberty
In that they’re very hard on me.
In truth: a sort of lunacy,
That’s soon reduced to parody.

The moon and sun were out last night,
They hadn’t met for days —
No sooner did they meet, then they
Both went their separate ways.

It’s like some friends, or marriages:
That’s just the way things are —
But satellites can still reflect
Upon a late lost

I used to hear the singing stars at night.
I used to feel the swaying of the trees —
I’d dine and drink both star- and candlelight,
And taste the very fabric of the breeze,
As lonely gulls cried out across the way:
Back when I had the sense to sense
The day