In The Swirl of Moments

Now older, your dark hair turned to light,
Your mind and words, sometimes, turn back on older days.
I see you, lost in remembered joys:
When you felt powerful, and the world was open wide.
Perfectly beautiful, complete in yourself,
You can’t disguise how much you feel you’ve lost.
I did not know you in those days;
The Venns of our lives had not yet overlapped.

We willingly trade the things we love
To aid the people we love,
But that does not mean the process is
Without grief; nor does it lessen
The good of the present.
Vanity is air: not really there, in some ways,
But totally necessary;
Love is like water: surrounding and
Caressing us.

I look at you, across this swirling warm pool,
Eyes closed, mind of former days, and think:
My love, you are still so beautiful, so strong:
And while there’s much we must let go of,
Never let go of what makes you

You

“… with wings as eagles”

When it’s as though all reason’s lost its heart,
And vagaries of ache give way to toil;
There is a fever tears the soul apart,
As trouble gathers, sorrow on the boil –

The patient wait, although their strength may wane,
For strength renewed through all they must endure:
With wings as eagles, soaring through the pain
Beyond the strife to all that’s good
And pure

oiseau exotique

last night, a man of stone came crashing down
encountering a oiseau exotique;
a brightened tone, a slathering of just
as much as could sustain, and light, and peak

abeyance and obeisance and alight;
the marble cold, the pillows warm and soft,
a nuisance sent to crawl upon the earth
that feels the upward draft, and soars aloft

then pulled into the happening of times;
the messenger that must it's few words give
before the flock descends in wild race
and bids him rest apace, corroborative

the oiseau exotique that gliding turned
above alcazar fallen, empty, burned

Tuonela

Transitions are for those who’re left behind;
The guardians of what has come and gone
Must live upon the banks of life repined,
And make a king or queen of what feels pawn

But she is there, with silence, or with touch
To aid the healing of the sick and sore;
To do, but not to do too overmuch –
To give what’s right, and not give less or more —

The sad, the grieving – these she walks among,
With sores so raw, she often, too, gets stung —
But Love will carry weights where strong men fail:
Not even death
Against it can

Avail