Run The Dunes

The days that we would run the dunes
Until the sun sank low;
Those timeless, breathless afternoons
So free of care and woe

The nights beside the ocean as
The stars came out to shine;
No other spot in mem’ry has
A feel so anodyne

As just to know, now that your gone,
That we were e’er so blessed:
And that, we’ll run again, someday,
Sweet dunes
Where we’ll find
Rest

{ … the empty silence … }

the empty silence swallows us
when we tune out the noise;
the politics of hatred in
a world of equipoise –

the hollowness of everything,
the shadows in our eyes —
the camera that shows the soul
behind all our disguise —

we give in to the hatred, and
the calumny, the violence:
but come to reckoning at last
within the empty silence.

the empty silence swallows us
and chokes our last confession:
we saviors who would fix the earth,
but die within
depression

The Open Gate

Beckoning, the open gate,
On a summer morn;
Lonesome in the sun, sedate,
Yet a touch forlorn

Graves of many, long ago,
Who lived near this place;
Disrepair, but even so,
It’s a lovely trace

Sleeping, on the mountainside,
In a hundred beds,
Flowerings of humankind
Each last petal sheds

Let the trees grow strong and high
And the wind blow straight:
We’ll all be here by-and-by,
Past the open
Gate

murray river basin

the earth is thirsty

the earth is thirsty so am i
out past where we all come to die
alone and without celebrant
a wastrel bard irrelevant
the half-cocked eye the shaking lip
fair captain of a foundered ship
the desert plain of fated need
to thirst to ache
to drop

to bleed

The Show Goes On

The show goes on; the dead have played their part.
But still we wait for one more cue, or line:
Those ne’er said words that we have known by heart,
And memorized, as though a valentine

That we will never feel in hand, or see.
The looked for, listened for, and waited on
That will not heed our cry, or hear our plea;
For love’s most fully owned when it is gone.

The show goes on; the dead have played their role,
But there’s no point in dialogue, or mark;
You live, although you’re missing half your soul,
A sunflower within the gray and dark —

    For none of it makes any kind of sense,
    The scene, the plot, the play, the

    Audience