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
Tag: Assumptions
Farrowswhite
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
To share is human:
The Pattern of our Choices
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
To share is human:
What Makes Love Possible
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
To share is human:
Because We Can’t
“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
To share is human:
Assumptions (15)
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
To share is human:
The Separated
There’s some who’ve never known the still,
And who might even pity
The isolated wanderer
Away from hum and city
Who finds instead the changing sky.
The heart that needs no herd,
Who hears a meaning in the wind
For which there is no word —
The majesty of solitude,
The grandeur in a soul
Who, separated from the rest,
Becomes part of
The whole
To share is human:
Shutting Up Shop
I wanted, son, to give you this,
But now, it’s emptied out and closed,
And all the fretted details lost.
Yet what I think I’ll rue the most
Is that you won’t remember here,
And it will not live on in you:
For though we will move forward, there’s
An always hole when dreams die ere
Their dreamers do
To share is human:
Assumptions (14)
I look at paintings and I think
How full and wondrous it must be
To see or dream, and then to make
That vision a reality.
How I would love, with colored brush,
To bring a world inside my mind
To canvas for the world too see,
And leave this drab gray one behind —
But then recall, with some chagrin,
My father was an artist who
Put brush and paint away for good
When he was only thirty-two.
For though he loved to paint, he was
In a too-common situation:
What he could see, he couldn’t match,
And so stopped out of sheer
Frustration
