Dreams / Tell Me, Autumn

Beautiful and pointless are
My dreams —
Often unremembered
After birth

Much the same is true of
Human lives —
But that’s no real measure of

Their worth


Tell me, autumn, do you know
Why it is I dream of you?
Can you see humanity
Reaching for what’s good or true?

Tell me, autumn, graciously,
Why we crawl but long to fly,
And the reason that we strive
Not to know, but to know

Why

The Music of Remembering

The music of remembering, the melody of “once”;
The flash of memory blinding like a thousand burning suns —
The heart turned inwards toward a time when kindness was in style:
And whispered love was guaranteed to cause a secret smile

The music of remembering, the cabaret of time;
With everything in motion, but emotions still in line —
A day out on the lawn with just her memories in tow:
Of when the whispers were for her –
And love,
An afterglow


in love’s embrace,
we do not see
that it’s a source
of misery
for those of us
who’ve felt it’s sting:

for love
just screws up
everything

soon / very much

sharp the summer, fair the fall,
overgrown the pathway lies,
seasons of transitioning
soon to fossilize —

soon the winter, then the spring,
overtrod the pathway dark,
leaves like seasons disappear,
as new ones

embark


he told her, “soon,”
and then he said goodbye.
the lake lay still
in calm simplicity,

she was a girl
so very much in love,
who didn’t know
how fickle boys

could be


© Krimzoya | Dreamstime.com

Seekers of the Fire

the trees turn their backs upon
the last of the light,
where cold blows the winter,
and pale comes the night

the last bit of warmth, that goes
engulfed by doubt —
and seekers of the fire know:
the flames are
out


in the wilderness
of light chased and hope betrothed,
some still recall how
the fire once called to good
the people who long slumbered

painted / blanket

behind a door,
inside a box,
wrapped up in papers with a bow

is how he feels
about his love:
so much that she will never know

he’d give his arm,
he’d give his heart,
but he can’t make his feelings felt

and silence like
a blanket falls —
for what she doesn’t know
can’t help


in painted sadness daylight goes
and takes her long hopes with it;
it’s time to care about herself,
it’s time to stop and pivot

and do the things she knows she must,
and to herself show honor:
although she knows she’s giving up
some things
she’ll always
long for

Token

what is your truth? what have you seen
when no one else was there to see?
is there a lonely spot of road
that's made from you or maybe me?

you knew one in the wintertime
when walls were painted with despair
and no place that you went preferred
to anywhere
or everywhere

what is your plot? your character? 
  your theme?
why do you linger over post, 
  or meme,
or stare at empty screens and wait 
  for words?
or dream of flight, while sealing out 
  the birds?

the lonesome road of wintertime
the isolated way;
the habits that are character,
the token we must pay
to see while we have eyes to see,
and not to look away:
for humankind is horrible
past what mere words can say.

our eyes look down,
the raptors coil above:
it's only love that is our hope,
and all our hope must be
in only
love

The Book of Days and Marmots

Saturday

Some climb so they may live, while others
Live among the heights,
And take it only as their due,
The chosen few
Who placidly ignore the sights
Among the high lands of their fathers and mothers.

Some struggle daily to be anything like free,
While others freely roam
And give no further thought
To what they have that can’t be bought
Like peace and home,
And taking mealtimes in the place they want to be.

Is there a place for you beyond the hurry,
On a mountainside to dwell
Within a place to call your own?
A touching stone:
More sound and safe than you could tell,
Just past the edge of all your sorrow and your worry?

Sunday

Idly, upon the hills,
They spent their better days;
Sorrow came like sudden rain,
Darkening their ways

Once, the sky, in brightest blue,
Was in state arrayed:
Memories, grown dark, that drift
Slowly off
To fade

Monday

Do not judge me by
Appearance —
I am small, but strong.

Unlike some,
Who are big, but who
Live as fools.

Tuesday

I sing a song of mountains high,
And crystal air, and skies still pure:
My voice, it carries, swift and sure,
To those who know the battle’s nigh.

The battle’s nigh, and will be long,
To keep the hills and forests green
Beyond a world grown dank, obscene,
Where there sounds yet a mountain song

Wednesday

They called me a “fat squirrel” because
They didn’t know my name;
My type they’d never seen before,
And so, they did defame

My very self, with imprecations
On my size and weight:
But I’m a marmot, dammit —
That’s a blessing, not
A fate

Thursday

We climbed for half a day; the Tirol Alps
Lay well around us, everywhere we looked,
Ablaze with life and light. And naive us
Expected Julie Andrews to show up.

Friday

Past sweeping swaths and heaving hills,
A mountain made of madness;
A covert camaraderie,
A gluttony of gladness

A paradise of paradox,
The half-known on the heights:
A man among the marmots,
Who belongs to
Barrow-wights