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

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

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

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

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

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