In the fading light of tomorrow…

In the fading light of tomorrow,
Every wish gets weighed with great precision

On the edge of the lonely island,
Where the river fluxes into indecision

And I wander along the cliffside,
Hoping to find a sign to use, or borrow —

But there’s nothing but gold, and rhythm,
In the fading light of what’s left of one


all the Colors…

whispered, “give me all the Colors…”
scrambled, found, but soon set Free
whispered, “we can now be Lovers…”
strange, but how Things came to be

raised within a house of Wonder,
sent into a world of Fear,
whispered, “give me all the Colors,
but don’t bring Them, bring Them


A Moral Theory of Biscuits

Upon this day, in Nineteen-Eight,
She came forth to some small acclaim,
Within a people tinged with shame
But whose regard for tribe was very great —

No, she would not be second-class,
Nor bathe in some subservience
To customs made of little sense
Nor what to her was meaningless, or crass,

So burst she, in Depression years,
Upon a world unready; she, undimmed
By what was darkly thought, the headlines skimmed
And full of courage made from hope and fears

She traversed through the morass of an age
So thick with unseen barriers and grime,
That strength itself became a sort of crime
With punishment its sure and common wage —

But how? We only see by light of truth,
And maybe all that’s left is blood, and flour,
And vestiges of passion, killed by power
In stories small, invisible to youth.


A smattering of May across
A canvas of September —
The angry huddle in their rage,
But the wise remember.

A package from a countertop
That’s torn and reeking —
The foolish stop to register,
But the wise keep seeking.

We seek the crowd affirming, but
We find soon how well that goes —
For there’s no place that’s lonelier
Than one that’s chock with echoes —

We ask the wind for guidance, and
It’s howls come cold and violent —
The many go where it may blow,
But the wise keep silent.

the matter rest

Slightly, the tree sways.
Carefully arranged books and new blankets
Stand beside the watcher, the explainer,
Who, in turn, dreams of a valley
(Where hopes sleep kissed and roots drink deep)

Unlike the bright bay,
Where flounder and cobia
Flash through glints between skis

Such wasted potential —
To be so much and to barely be —

Out here, in the valley,
There is an infinity to what I have not been,
Unlike the bright bay
And perhaps it’s best to let the matter rest