[Note: the word is pronounced “boat”. – Owen]

The true bote of our guilt and shame,
The expiation of our hate,
To own the truth and take the blame,
And not to self-exonerate

These medieval virtues seem
And ancient wisp or fading dream:
For now, all innocence is bought,
And our one sin is getting caught

From Middle English bōte (“advantage, benefit, profit; relief, salvation; atonement, amends, expiation; cure”)

Picture credit : Yung Chao Chen

a line of wonder

a line of wonder in the grass,
a heartbeat in a world of stone;
a different lesson, school, and class,
an octave and a semitone —

the filtered true, the vivid false,
the dirge that leads us to the waltz,
with music ringing in the air,
and lines of wonder everywhere


You say the truth is what you need
To set your life on solid ground,
But ‘satisfaction guaranteed’
While easy said, is seldom found,

For candor is a poisoned sword,
And honesty it’s own reward;
So better now some truth to lack
Than hurts that can’t be taken back

Snapshot: First Impression

A moment tinged with wariness,
A sense that danger’s coming near;
A feeling that she can’t express,
A vague, but unrelenting, fear –

She sees a face she loves and knows:
Her sister smiling, drawing close,
So tries her unnamed dread to stay
And meet her sister’s fiancée

The Mist Upon the Lea

There is a mist upon the lea,
There is a journey far to make —
There’s one for you, and one for me,
And many diff’rent paths to take

And more: a way that has no trail,
And of it, we must have avail,
To find out what it means to be
Amid the mist upon the lea

A Classic Car

A classic car that takes me back
To times, indeed, ere I was born;
With gleaming chrome and tires black
By beaches on a summer’s morn —

A world from movies only known,
That probably is overblown
Within a mind that pictures bliss
In salad days with rides like this

Past Paris

Past Paris, out near Claye-Souilly,
Beside a small and blue canal,
She had me stop so we could see;
Such was, I think, her rationale —

We then we went to a hotel bar
And drank our fill of Pinot noir,
And laughed and sang and swayed and played,
Past Paris, where mistakes
Get made