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
Tomorrow
so many visions fractured, things
i don’t remember making,
ideas formed before
i knew to say, “remember
that you made these.”
lost and broken
so now, the days of aging,
not a super-sleuth or power-broker,
just a group of limitations
smelling like
the summer came too soon.
i see, though, now
that what is not ideal
can still be interesting;
and that where
warm small moments flow
they flow for you and me
so close your eyes, lay back
and let me trace along with fingertips
the outline of
the pressures you have lived,
those long inhabitants
let me release them from your skin,
for though we need not trade the good for bad,
we can accept the good,
when all the moments
just become the one
this moment
for all time
and by these candles
let us turn to smoke
to smoke and water blending
liquid light
that burns and
rises higher
Blazing on the purple sea
Waves of endless ecstasy
Washing over you and me
Soothing all our sores
Sun is setting finally
Blazing on the purple sea
Reaching its maturity
Burning to our cores
Days spent in futility
Striving for utility
Blazing on the purple sea
Trying to fight complacency —
When it rains, it often pours
Hopes and waves come back in scores
Maybe there’s yet victory
Blazing on the purple sea
You think about it all the time,
But never have you said
The weight you carry in your heart,
The words within your head —
But in the morning, hard and gray,
You’ve known these secret pains
Then covered up the traces,
All the bruises and the stains.
To all the world you’ve shown a face
You’ve painted on for show,
But that’s become habitual;
Now, everywhere you go,
You just display the sunlight.
You’re a beacon mid the rains,
And no one sees the leakage,
Or the bleeding, or the stains.
It doesn’t matter anyway.
You know that’s how you think —
And when you seem on edge, I know
You’re really on the brink —
Why is it that you won’t come clean?
There really is no knowing,
But maybe you’ll see hope to know
Your stains at last
Are showing
let not hope disappear
though chill be in the air:
the winter may be here,
but the garden is
still there
I sat and watched the burning ones.
They came in twos and threes:
The night was their intoxicant,
And ardor, their disease —
I see them, too, in memory,
They’re everywhere about —
For when you are a burning one,
You’re destined to
Go out
we chase at times the wild prize
that runs from us unflaggingly;
we track at times the quiet hope
that slides and sidesteps, stealthily –
or maybe, we’ve just one desire:
a slender, lonely, candle-beam —
that we have never chased or tracked
for it’s right there,
in every
dream
The love that was, where does it go?
Why does it slip away?
She wonders, as the autumn slow
Comes drifting in with orange glow,
To keep her hopes at bay,
To keep her hopes at bay.
The love that was, why does it rage
And storm to find no port?
Just scribbled hearts upon a page,
The price of pain, the lover’s wage,
And dreams cut far too short,
And dreams cut far too short.
The love that was, why does it end?
Why should such sorrow be?
But none can ever comprehend
The ways of life and loss of friend
Or love, that endless sea —
Or love, that endless
Sea
