A time, a touch, a place —

A time, a touch, a place,
The look upon your face,
A flood of feelings, everywhere,
And far more love than space.

A happening, an art,
Togetherness, apart:
A flood of what was once so rare,
An aching in my heart.

For life is only love.
It’s all that we dream of;
But life is rarely ever fair,
When push comes down to shove —

A time, a touch, a feel,
Not knowing if it’s real,
Or if we’re even truly there,
And yet, it’s our

The Song of Will Set Free

The sun, the moon, the rain,
The crowded path of pain,
The storm before the still,
The fun we have until the bill —-

The measure and the mind,
The values left behind,
The feathers and the quilt,
The troubled thrills that start the guilt —-

The song of will set free,
The end of apathy,
To face, embrace the trite:
That one more chance to do things right

The Ghost of My Imagining

Beneath the temple mound,
He prowls without a sound:
The ghost of my imagining,
In tunnels, underground.

Beneath the ancient earth,
A being without birth;
In restlessness, he walks the night,
To find the soul’s true worth.

He’s not of human race,
Nor bound by time or space;
I know his aspect well, although,
I’ve never seen his face.

But still he wanders free,
Through all eternity —
The ghost of my imagining:
He seems a lot
Like me

An Open Gate to Nowhere

I see the open gate,
And notice that you’re late;
The summer’s nearly almost gone,
We must soon acclimate

To colder sorts of days,
To autumn’s turn of phrase:
The summer’s nearly almost gone,
With all of its malaise.

Where once love was alive,
And seemed to grow and thrive,
We find ourselves at loggerheads,
And never did arrive

At summer’s loving place.
There’s truth we have to face —
We find ourselves at loggerheads;
We’re just another case –

Of gardens, overgrown –
Of truth that’s still unknown —
An open gate to nowhere, and
A man who’s still

The Wooden Path

Upon the wooden path
We walked with sandy feet;
With pleasures in the aftermath
Of almost day complete

In salience of love,
And quietude of mind,
Translucent Brandeis up above
Our footsteps slat-confined

But in a sudden breath
Of summer warm sea-air;
I realize, as certain death
That you were never there

As footsteps echoes die
The waves no longer play;
Togetherness was just a lie
The picture fades away

Immersive Wonder

I rose and walked at dawn,
The dark to dwell upon —
But then I saw the birds and sea:
I don’t know, honestly

So words are often wise,
But then turn into lies –
All character’s a mystery;
I don’t know, honestly

My grandson and I play
Upon the floor all day.
The time just flies, he’s only three –
I don’t know, honestly

But here, beside the shore
I’ll stand and think some more –
The world seems strange – or is it me?
I don’t know,


the hurting’s all around,
for him, untravelled ground –
he does not seek her world to know
he there remains, homebound

her heartbreak he has missed;
his own, he will insist,
seems worse to him – what he must bear –
her sorrow he’s dismissed

insipid elegy
he sings sans harmony –
there is no bridge to join them while
there is no empathy

the rain, it falls in showers,
we craft our jeweled memoirs,
and so the pains we bear (we find)
are ours and only ours —

and so it never ends:
the world of could’ve-beens —
because he just dismisses pain,
he never finds
real friends

Justice Doesn’t Care

Oh, no, my angry one.
Don’t look for justice there:
Believe me when I tell you, son,
That justice doesn’t care

Across most time and space
In all the earthish globes:
We find self-satisfaction comes
From wearing certain robes

They sleep a babies sleep,
With calm, untroubled mien:
Within their high-walled castle deep,
Behind the stately screen

While those they should attend
Are vanishing, ignored:
Each faux Platonic guardian
Is feted and adored

So do not waste your tongue;
They see sans cones or rods —
For justice doesn’t care among
Our worthless