A Country Autumn – 2

The truth is this: our wishes and our dreams
Tell more about us than appearances.
What truly is, ensconced behind what seems:
The barriers, the interferences

That come from doing all our everyday
Must-dos, that hide away our woulds and wills,
The nose to wipe, the one-more bill to pay,
The moving shadows stored online as stills,

That though they maybe colorful to see
Are more about what isn’t there than not.
The yearning humans, viewed complacently,
For what they do to just keep what they’ve got.

Appearance, less a window than a door,
For all of us, who know, inside, there’s more

She Was The Autumn

She was the autumn: elegant and kind,
But full of loss. The colors turned, and so
Did she; to coming wintertime resigned,
And pensive in the glade, the interglow.

The too-much gift of nature sometimes borne,
Until the leaves come off, and days grow dark;
The comforter who slips away to mourn,
On solitary walks out in the park.

She was so much and yet so little known,
Admired, but not really understood —
I see her there, as fallen leaves new-blown,
Out on the edge of fall, within the wood.

  She was the autumn: kind and elegant —
  But life came hard; she folded and then

Colors are like touch…

Colors are like touch, they can mean more
Than any words could say. When chosen well,
They may speak of the flags of ancient war
Of years ago, forgotten. Or may tell

Of pageantry, adventure, and romance –
The glorious and blazing sight of she
Or he, who braved the monster or the dance,
And kept throughout their great integrity.

Our favorite teams, or superheroes can
Always be told from others by the hues
In which they’ve long performed: woman or man,
Have colors known from helmets down to shoes.

  Other times, though, it is understood
  That colors just mean… colors. Which is good.

On The Lonely Paths

It was a time that many thought they owned:
The cities filled with hubris mid the hosts,
And countryside piled up with Facebook posts.
There, souls, self-righteous, saw themselves enthroned:
A breathless rush that could not be postponed
Of pointed gibes, and vain and idle boasts
That rang through interwebs, and past the coasts
To many reading lips whose minds intoned.

But out there, on the lonely paths, was seen
A girl whose mind was full and otherwise;
Whose heart was used, whose senses, soft and keen
Could see the danger lurking in the skies:
That how we live’s not what we say, or mean,
And whole-sprung truth, we rarely verbalize


(“On The Lonely Paths” – 3-13-2017)


I go back then to understand my now.
The journey: birth to life, morality;
The search for love, in all it’s why and how,
And what it means to make and keep a vow.
To not succumb to life’s banality;
To live and love in real totality.

I see my now, and hold it while I can,
For while I’m many, fate attends the one.
For I am not six cubits and a span,
I’m just another ordinary man,
Who wants the contest well and fairly run,
And know I did my best when day is done.

    But sometimes, all of “now” just seems a mess,
    In waves of hatred veiled as

Summer Passion – II

While walking down the beach, we found a key
To maybe-treasures, long ago forgot;
The wind was forward, maybe slightly lee,
Beneath a sail so easy to keep taut,
That summer of our passion and regret
That we have not exactly left, just yet.

We locked the door, and fell together, two
Of maybe-lovers, long ago and soon —
The sea was roaring, we were pushing through
And past the morning, all the way to noon,
To where we lay and wondered at it all,
The pride before a rise, and then a fall,

The light that shone, and warmed, and lastly burned —
The key to understanding what we learned

7 Essences – 6

At night, asleep, I see her in a garden:
Her dancer’s stately walk, and pensive mien,
And feeling as though I should beg her pardon,
For holding on to something she’d cut clean.

But she – she cannot see, nor can she hear me:
This is a dream, but still she’s out of reach,
And I, a fool, a mere thing of convenience,
Can’t move her anymore by act, or speech —

And even in my dreams, I find no comfort,
Just watching her in gardens of regret,
And knowing in the morning, I’ll still love her,
While she my name and face will soon forget.

    And I recall friends telling me, “let go.”
    But still, so many nights of this dumb show