Morning Wakes Upon the Hill

The morning wakes upon the hill,
The moon awaits me in the glen;
I set out with a frozen will
To talk to you again.

The world is just a funeral fire,
A ceremony of remorse;
And still I’m climbing, ever higher,
Set upon this course —

I asked you for forgiveness once;
You set about it with good grace –
But you’ve been gone, and now your ghost
Moves softly through this place

Of missing leaves, and morning mist.
Mid echoes of intention,
I take the path that upward lies
Defying such convention

As would dictate a different course.
I knew you back when love was life;
And life was not enframed by death
And peace was not entombed in strife.

We can’t recapture innocence —
For once it’s gone, it’s gone for good,
And all our striving, in a sense,
Is just so much misunderstood

By others; and by (often) us.
How can it be the trees still know?
They lose their splendor; still, they stand.
And every single path will show

The wisdom of the rocks and trees,
The solemn beauty in the soil;
Where love is not some rash disease,
But more like liberty in toil –

To live, to grow: these are our days –
To strive to know as many ways
To scale the hills as we can find:
And integrate the body-mind

Into the whole ’twas meant to be.
Whether on mountainside or fen —
As morning wakes upon the hill,
And moon awaits us in
The glen

the gold of the december sun…

the gold of the december sun
has touched the fields of white –
the anger goes, what’s done is done,
it’s time to make things right –

the fire in the sky is like
the one within your heart –
for old times never end until
the new ones

A Closed Encounter

Inside the empty Toys-R-Us, I think of all the children
Like mine, who once passed through this store.
The strange thing about retail
Is just how vilified it is, while still remembered fondly.
What was once true of General Stores,
Was later true of Woolworth’s, and of Sears:
They aren’t commercial enterprises to us
So much as memories of how we felt in shopping there.

When I was a kid, the Sears and Penneys catalogues were big.
My favorite catalogue, though,
Was from a place called Miles Kimball (It’s still out there)
Which was a work of art. We scanned each page,
And read the stories there within.

How many stories, though, of children’s dreams
This place has held. I walk around the empty room,
Feeling not commercialism, or materialism, but imagination:
For it is the life a child puts into a toy
That makes it what it is, or can be.

Part of Knowing Love

On love and friendship —

Part of Knowing Love

Part of knowing love’s to know
That no one person can be everything:
No man or woman truly loves
Who leaves a rose to die from lack of light

Or soil, or even the water of shared grief —
In a universe so vast that we can only
Truly have a known place by
Where we are in relation to others

The inter-connectedness of friends
Is the often forgotten
Part of knowing love

by products

A meditation on our role in the choices available to us

the world’s a store, and
we walk by products that are
arranged to catch our eyes;
our attention often fixed upon
objects not present, the
subjects of our current fixations –

and yet, if economics allow, we often
buy products that we know we may not
need or even want, merely from a sort of
habit of politeness; a feeling that
so much trouble was gone to for us, we
really should show some support –

bringing home these pointless objects, we
find ourselves leaving by-products, traces
of these and other half-optimal choices that
make up most of our days; the things we do, because
we must do something, and so we choose from among
the options available to us

if, of course, by “products” we are thinking of
things like relationship and career choices, this
only becomes more true – and more the
pity, since we frequently either don’t go to
enough stores to provide sufficient choice or
go to stores long after the right choice has been
purchased by someone else