two walking along,
hands clasped, hearts joined together;
love, the best they had

emptying themselves of self,
adrift on currents of hope

the matters back of mind that fester –
those are never small —
the things we leave behind are thus
the heaviest
of all

they jumped off of the boat and swam;
they’d stripped off most their clothes –
along a sunset riverside
with sand between their toes

and love, like some new miracle,
made each dim past recede:
their boat lay empty near the shore,
but they were filled


labored wandering
from the paths of righteousness
for no one’s name’s sake

surely goodness and mercy
have forsaken the world-lost

we choose the paths we mean to take,
but find ourselves on others;
the children that we meant to make –
as fathers and as mothers –

are born to others; set in stone,
the products of our choosing —
we can’t go back, we can’t get out,
and cannot win
for losing

My life, I lived you rich, with all the foam
That I could fill – in glasses and and in baths –
In luxuries found far away from home;
Illicit trysts beside forbidden paths —

Hypocrisy: of manner and of taste,
Of words at variance with lived-out style;
The choice is only how time goes to waste,
Each trip is only one more lonely mile

But still, to seek the glow, and wear the shine:
It is the heart of elegance and worth –
For I took yours and made into mine,
And sowed the seeds of rapture and new birth —

He laughs the best who ever really laughs,
For they are all the same, they are — our paths

Snow Drifting

— 1 —

There is a fullness in this place
Caressing muscle, heart, and bone;
A chilly glow, an open space,
The chance to think, and be alone,

And sing without the need of words,
To speak without the use of sound —
Just feel the moment, fully borne
With such small glories as a life

Is crowned

— 2 —

Last night, you came to me without your shoes,
And sank into me, suddenly; and I,
Who’d thought about it many times, believed.

Like leaves out in the snow and twisting wind,
Beneath a moon that doesn’t know regret,
We moved because our hearts were meant to dance —

These freezing hearts were meant for just this dance

— 3 —

In Spring, on a gleaming bench,
He asked the girl to be his wife,
In Summer, in a forest glade,
The pledged each other love and life.
In Autumn, color changed to gold,
But love must conquer all, and will —
In Winter, here’s the bench and glade,
The gold is gone, and all

Is still

receding expectancy

It’s everything she doesn’t see;
It’s what she does not feel —
It’s hope that’s only fantasy
And love that’s never real

But still, there is expectancy;
She knows there’s something cooking —
It’s somewhere in the distance, now;
But she won’t give up

solitary view:


ever receding

mystic forest

the mystic forest

where branches intercept what

the heavens declare

the glow streams through
the yielding trees
to add its light
to our unease

but though our minds
are restless, true –
what light we have
will have
to do

scolded by beatitude,
blessed by touch of sorrow;
forest of today’s intent,
hide my shame

as i live and breathe

she once said

before she just stopped

a trilogy in white

he wakes to numbing ice and fog;
his back is sore, his eyes a-blear –
he scoops out food to give his dog
and wipes the window with a smear
and sees the trees amid the snow,
the world awash in dreary white —
and in his archipelago
of scattered hopes estranged in blight
he’ll heat up coffee on the stove,
the heat will touch his fingers —
as morning thoughts of loathing wrack,
and night’s regretting

the distant mountain

doesn’t say

but it sees the pain

sometimes the blankness, others
habituated by the cage that winter
has become; but feet get tired,
eyes grow weary, and captains run out
of orders to give to those who lost
confidence that following the plan means
following what’s right to do in the
face of all that bleeds into the snow
surrounding everything; unclarity the word,
misbegotten truths transmitted by text messages and
men drinking coffee by windows next to pens on
half-finished crosswords, and frameworks of
designs awaiting the filling in with colors,
most the time, the bright ones, but
sometimes the blankness