Pearl

A lifelong love story.

A wild girl who ran away
To find her love among the wind and sand;
His native pearl, was what he used to say,
As he would gently take her hand

The ancient lands from which she came,
The pattern of a people of the earth;
A pearl among the Navajo, her name –
And love in him which she had given birth

And they grew old together, he and Pearl,
Her love remained as always, wild and fierce:
But never had a boy more loved a girl,
Nor died with so much honor
In his tears

when all the colors…

… we have ever dreamed

a saturday, with many staying in
to watch a football game, or be with friends:
he wandered out to see the autumn leaves,
as new in town he was, and restless kept

the stretch of woods he walked was gorgeous dressed;
he listened not to music, just the sound
of wind and cars and people as they went,
and felt the cool of autumn brush his neck

and saw a woman standing by a bridge:
a walking path above a tiny creek,
who stood there leaning with a book in hand,
and in it, for a bookmark, was a leaf

she said “hello” as he was walking by,
and he said “hi. what are you reading, there?”
“a book on inner sanctity,” she laughed,
and he did, too. and then he asked her name

she told it him, as he then told her his;
he said he was still new in town, and worked
at such-and-such a place. and she remarked
upon the colors of the fall that year

so step back with me now, and merely watch:
see unsuspecting love peek out its head –
as two who set out just to be alone,
now walking slowly through the glorious fall

when all the colors they had never known
were seen at once in all that may yet be:
come watch them now, as i do, in my mind,
as he discovers she discovers he

for love’s a story always with a start,
be it one of beginning or surprise,
when all the colors we have ever dreamed
get wrapped up all in one,
and so
do we

Asphodel

The sharp regret that follows to the grave
Is hidden now by neither snow nor stone;
For while we’re weak, it’s possible we’re brave
Enough to face our sorrows on our own,
Albeit, we need never be alone —-
For though we live in dungeons in the dark,
The fire’s there of love’s remaining spark.

With bitterness, regret stays ever close,
An agony that’s known to very few;
As we take wormwood, endlessly, in dose
And wear the angry lie to hide the true,
And gain the strength to do what we must do —-
As in the end, love stands and gives its all,
An “always” in its heart, up to its fall


Photo credit : © Robert Philip | Dreamstime.com

{ … seasons, like eternities … }

in seasons, like eternities,
we watched them spark and grow –
banalities are everything
when they are all you know

or so we thought from where we sat.
our friends were deep and gone;
we judged things then quite casually –
so upper echelon

were we, that we saw nothing clear.
despite our vision grand
there was much in simplicity
we couldn’t understand.

you plan a trip, logistically,
it’s money and it’s stuff:
we somehow missed the marvel that
is two who have enough.

in seasons, like eternities,
the truth sang out at last;
while locked in our modernity,
the moment almost passed

to see and comprehend our friends
on top of Fortune’s wheel:
for love sees clearly, if not ends,
what matters and

what’s real

substitute

they stood beside the frozen lake;
bare winter was at hand —
he’d always felt her reticence,
but didn’t understand

she looked at him with so much love,
then drew herself a breath,
and though a tear was in her eye,
she looked a bit like death —

but she was honest to the core,
and would not there mislead him;
she had to tell her simple truth,
however it might grieve him —

i’m grateful for the kindness, but
i’ll brook no synonym —
there cannot be a substitute:
for you cannot

be him

Old Man, Waiting

He stayed, although they’d told him she was gone.

An old man in a hat, who you might miss,
Sat waiting for someone who’d never come;
The room had cleared to silent emptiness,
But he would not believe – would not succumb –

In touches seen but only privately,
He’d known love from an acorn to a tree;
The heart that sealed itself, and clicked its locks,
Would not convert that love into a box
Of wood made from the one phenomenon
That graced his life for all these many years…

The room filled up again, and life went on,
While he sat staring, past the edge of tears.
Another night leads to another dawn,
One light goes out, another one appears –

While somewhere, far inside, a curtain’s drawn —

He stays, although they told him she

Was gone