Half-frozen mud, cold bracing air
A wind that makes my neck aware
That leaves torn from the tree will die
These poor gray strays who tumble by

And like the ghostly light I seek
The morn recedes behind the line
Only of chance to risk a peek
At drifting lives
Like yours

And mine


(“Aware” – 11-19-2014)

a scaring

the fall lay empty you
and i were sitting in

but you were gone
you’d long been gone
i turned to look and you were gone

the autumn sank into,
beneath, the winds
of hollowness

but i was done
i’d long been done
so many happy things we’d never

a habit of ingratitude
that’s past the point of speech,
a scaring off of what grief is,
a knowledge beyond reach

october and a lonely wind,
a leaf blows by, and knows
that it is dead

i turn again to look for you,
for you will never leave
nor will this

A Gypsy Dream

My friend, the gypsy, shared a dream
Of how she’d found a carnival,
A type of old tradition where
The best of their technology
Was brought to bear to try to make
A wonderland of lights and sorcery.

Where lovers could walk hand-in-hand
And feel excitement from the crowd,
As she did; with some unknown he
Whose face was handsome, though unseen.
But still the glow of love was there,
Among the scents of summer on the pier.

But love, she said, is not her way:
At least, the way that many think
That love should be: just one for good –
A night, a day, a month, a year,
That’s fine, but even in a dream,
She knew the carnival must have
An end – a letting go – a final turn.

She stared away, in shadows, then
She said, “I’m built for wandering.
The hands I hold are many, as
I make my way across this life.
I’m sure that dream was just my truth
As written on my neurons in the night.”

I watched her kiss the sunset, and
The gleaming colors in her eyes
As she arose to meet the night,
And leave me in a cafe seat
To ponder what a gypsy thing
That lives and hearts are in the very end,

That lives and hearts are in the very end.

kaleidoscopic palisades

the almost-truth we never reach
kaleidoscopic palisades
the politics of what we preach
that hide our unctuous charades
the world of "they" who need to change
the doors we close to hide the truth
the maps we slyly disarrange
devoid of anything like ruth
the never-meant we always say
kaleidoscopic palisades
the mask we wear but underplay
our hypocritical crusades
the balsa turned to tulgey-wood
built up from pine and foolishness
the silence growing in our hearts
we cover with effusiveness
kaleidoscopic palisades
we see them in the distance now
but we will not crash into them
although, at this point, I am not sure how

{ … the shadows of our choices … }

the shadows sing, and interlace
within, around this grateful place;
compassion sits in angled dark,
in whispers soft and palate stark

instinctively, reflexively,
in actions spun by sophistry,
in tunic, or chemise, or sark -
the cloth we choose: our sign, our mark --

and still, despite our reticence,
those shadows - guilt and innocence -
will kiss and cross the floor, in light,
and evanesce like what is right

for we are trapped within our dreams
in forests brushed by mountain streams,
to triumph, or, to rue disgrace --
as shadows sing,
and interlace