A Secret in the Stars

The broken times had come, and they’d come hard:
Her spirit bent, her body tired and sore —
The doors seemed shut, her every pathway barred,
And what was once a joy, now felt a chore:
She didn’t want to face it anymore.
  And so she rode out past the lights, and cars –
  Her whispered wish: a secret in the stars.

And there, the wonder lit upon her eyes;
The voices of the many come before
Had filled with her with such ardor, and surprise
As picked her weary heart up, off the floor
Of what had been. Intead, now, what’s in store
  For her seemed possibility; her scars
  Were soothed by secrets whispered in the stars

The Hindsight Warehouse

Within this room, with its fluorescent buzz,
Are all the ghosts of what has come and gone;
The hindsight warehouse: "should've", and "because" --
Those words that empty failure tends to spawn,
From which few real conclusions can be drawn
Other than that we will do what we do,
And stand in empty rooms when all is through.

I hear an echo, from a different day,
And see the room alive with industry,
The work we did to find a better way,
And give with caring, and with honesty,
Before the wreckage of our vanity
Exploded like a thousand fading stars
In bitterness, and chapters of memoirs.

We mop the floors that nobody will see,
And touch the dead, who can no longer feel,
We say we'll stay, then make our plans to flee,
Reneging on each sworn and sacred deal:
From others our dead promises conceal --

Because we hoped, we ventured for the heights,
But it's okay, now
                      turn out
                              the lights

a windward flock

she goes into the wind, the way she lived.
the flock of all who struggle, day by day;
and yet, that bracing feeling was a gift —
the purposeful: windblown, who never stray,
majestic and heroic in the way
they move on, through the hardest what, or why,
and still take others with them as they fly.


She made the laws, and he could stay, or not.

It was her game, and he a pawn or rook —

It wasn’t quite a trap; he wasn’t caught — 

But more strength than he had was what it took

To change his part within her plotted book —

And so he was obsequious and fawning

And did as he was told, while she sat


Love Selflessly

Love selflessly and you will pay the price
  of what it is to give and not receive –
  the heart of flame, returned with touch of ice;
  a soul encumbered, longing to believe;
  the joy that is, at once, a call to grieve
  within the emptiness of letting go —
    but love is worth it, worth it, even so.

Love selflessly, and time will halt its course
  and lay upon your mind the universe;
  at every turn to press with so much force
  that feels a maledictive sort of curse –
  a swirling mist the heart cannot disperse
  that magnifies what we’d least like to show —
    but love is worth it, worth it, even so.

There’ll be an ebb, of course, with every flow:
  but love is worth it, worth it, even so.

The Swirl of Seasons

He loved the colors of the swirl of seasons,
The semiotic utterance of youth,
How lassitude gets tangled up in reasons,
And how all our finesse becomes uncouth
In search for just a little bit of truth;
Like pictures in a child’s book we see
The swirl of seasons and mortality.

She asked for loyalty, some faint allegiance,
For love to see the soul and not the form,
And set to seek among the swirl of seasons,
To find some shelter from the coming storm
Where laughter was the rule, the gauge, the norm —
Like stained-glass colors: clear and autumn bright
That herald morning after dismal night.

The met when each was searching for an answer,
An image each had carried in their heart,
A silent singer and a secret dancer,
Who joined, then hoped to never be apart,
As though each ended in the other’s start;
The swirl of seasons, now, in polychrome –
And how the search for love, sometimes, hits home


When I was sentient, I knew a man
Whose hobby was to build things out of cards:
At least I think. For my attention span
Is very short, and doubtful in regards
To any but the widest boulevards
That truth or lone veracity might take
And subject to drive off, without a brake

At any rate: the guy. His steady hand
Was such that I admired, in the way
He could produce, from what his mind had planned,
Facsimiles of Paris or Marseilles,
Combining games of chance and macrame.
A balancing, precarious and wise
Of miracles set up before our eyes.