Seasons

In spring, you feel the newness of it all.
Each feeling is a flower, fresh, unique;
Like love or loneliness, each one is pure,
And beauty of discovery hangs round
The edges of the garden path that leads
To who you want to be and where and how —
In spring, you feel the newness of it all.


Summer on the edge of madness
Broken in emergent song;
Love’s a shadow born of gladness.
Nights too short for days so long

Shades come down on pages turning,
Glances lead to bodies burning,
Tangled up in their intentions,
Loves and likes and cites and mentions —

Summer in the glowing garden,
Moments known of passing fire,
Ere the fall comes hearts to harden,
Towards the autumn of

Desire


In the cool of autumn, still
We stood and wondered how,
We’d found each other in
This savant maze

A capturing, a visioning,
A laughter, and a pause —
A hymn, but more of promise, than
Of praise

It came with resignation, and
It went without applause;
A family, a faction,
And a fight —

The autumn sun was fading, and
The days were growing dark,
And we were changing colors with
The night


With time, comes winter, with its chill,
And we must finally go inside for heat,
And memories of the spring,
When everything was fresh and new,
And summer,
When we felt how love could be,
When heat was running wild,
Autumn,
When we stood out in the cool,
The evening cool, and watched
The twilight gather with
Its purple whispers
Of a looming time;
A time we’ve only known
As parable

With age, comes winter, with its rime,
And frozen becomes attitude, and time,
There is a slower pace,
And giving up of contest, game, and race;
But character is fate,
And all we leave’s too early, or too late,
The winter has it’s way
There is only the challenge of each day
And dripping memories,
That melt like icicles from trees,
And spring starts for another heart somewhere:
Another heart and life

Somewhere

Seaboard Station

Twas 1933, and she
Was wide-eyed with elation
The day her father took her
Down to visit Seaboard Station

They went to fetch a parcel, he
Had ordered for her birthday
And all her senses teemed
In the commotion of the workday

The smell of wood, the colors
Of the banners in the rafters;
These lingered in her memory
Through many long thereafters

The working people gradually
Moved on, through relocation;
Until a silence fell upon
Abandoned Seaboard Station

She stood there in her nineties
With her grandson by her side;
Who looked at her with wondering
To see her misty-eyed

For she knows that no poetry,
No possible narration,
Could tell the tales of all the lives
That passed through Seaboard Station

Kyrielle

The moments may come fast or slow,
The day may panicked be, or zen:
Though we have near or far to go,
We cannot live the past again

There is a silence in the wood,
There is a stillness in the glen,
Though life go bad and hearts come good,
We cannot live the past again

We all would see the world be changed
As girls to women — boys to men —
Then find our heart from hope estranged,
We cannot live the past again

The tracks run far to unknown land,
The chance that comes we cannot ken —
Through all the lives of distance spanned
We cannot live the past again

The unused treadmill at the gym,
The ink gone dry within the pen,
The sun gone down, the eye gone dim,
We cannot live the past again

The grass beyond the railroad track,
The “one day” that demarks the “then” —
The way is forward, never back:
We cannot live the past again


 

(“Kyrielle” – 5-25-2017)

Snapshot: On Finding An Abandoned Stall in the Desert (Revised)

There was a final time: the stall set out,
With jewelry and fabrics in a line —
The next day, and thereafter then, no more;
No more, and soon, no one with memory
To paint in images or words the scene
That once was daily, year on year on year.

The mundane, the quotidian: our lives,
Not big events, but habits of our days,
They soon lie empty on a sandy waste —
The firebird heads into the unknown,
High o’er the mountains, just past where we see,
To leave behind our stalls for someone else

Thrift Village

Pine cleaner and mildew in an endless battle always smelling,
Fluorescent lights glaring, steel shelves’ bright abundance of overstock;

Wide aisles of sometimes blockage, large displays,
Concerns of new managers and old vendors there daily stopping;

Living always in bargains for that which others
Have passed in affluence;

Thrift village then aging into infirmity, death overlooking —
Knowing only the cracks of light seeping through imprisoning boards

Fading, Fading

The days are fading, fading into smoke;
I try, but I can’t hold them in my hands.
The fire’s gone, there’s nothing left to stoke,
Just empty parking lots, and barren lands —

The days are turning, burning into mist;
With just a shimmer there, or glimmer here —
The mill of time, that turns our loves to grist,
And fads, like life, that up and

Disappear