A Minute On Time

If I can build, with all this time,
A life where I’m
Less truculent,
It’s time well spent.

But time’s a changing currency:
Not prone to flee
The way it would
When things were good.

So while I’ve time to quarrel now,
I find, somehow,
To “win”, at best,
Is pointlessness

Black and Wide

Without, within — from whence comes all the noise?
The inner world is sketchy, black and wide:
To draw it right, you must have equipoise.
The lines need only be as you decide:
No other voice can question, or deride —
So build the landscapes where you’d love to dwell,
And make a temple of your citadel.

Within, without — these words are much the same.
The pale and thin becomes the black and wide;
The waters murmur softly, “none to blame –”
But other whispers follow, amplified.
A loving heart is still the truest guide
To where you’d love to — want to — need to be,
The seeing soul’s lost sanctum by the sea.

Kyrielle at Dawn

Across, beyond, and in between,
This is the place where we exist;
These limits we can’t contravene —
  For now, we gaze into the mist.

We see the sunlight on the rise,
But with the day, will it persist?
So much that seems is in disguise:
  For now, we gaze into the mist.

From long ago, the voices tell
The struggles of which lives consist:
To be — it means, to be unwell —
  For now, we gaze into the mist.

In music, and in memory,
In those last-held, and those first-kissed,
Are love and hope, life’s treasury —
  For now, we gaze into the mist.

A Sunset Rondel

A spiraling of evening light,
A quick declension into dark;
The murky and the recondite,
A glint from off the curving arc —

A staring, past the point of sight;
About to finally disembark —
A spiraling of evening light,
A quick declension into dark.

And though the leaf be fastened tight,
The dying day will leave its mark:
On those who guard a lost monarch —
A spiraling of evening light,
A quick declension into dark.

Rispetto By The Water

The salt air in your nostrils, as
The waves lap out their lullaby;
The soul that is, is one that has
A right to give up on the “why”

For maybe, it’s not ours to know.
It will, it must, it needs be so —
The way we feel, but cannot guess,
A pattern that is patternless

An Evening Sonnet

How many angry words are too soon said?
He reworks all of these, his long mistakes —
They rattle and they stab inside his head;
They gather into pools, and sometimes lakes.

Escaping does not quite seem possible;
The pools too deep, the lakes uncrossable —
And so they form a sort of slow revue:
The when and how, the why and where, the who —

So is this what a man becomes at last?
A parody? An anchor in the sand?
Or finally, just might he understand
That there’s no peace till there’s peace with the past —

    To sit and hold, to breathe, and to believe,
    And fade away like shadows of an eve

I see but only barely…

I see but only barely,
I hear, but just in part,
I do not reach for you, because
We’re meant to be apart.

I think I know the future,
And it will get here, at last:
Let’s just hope, when it arrives
It’s not chained to

The past