Category Archives: Perspective

Midnight’s Cage

Summer’s rain collects beneath the edge of neon light,
gathered in a rusting pool reflecting sharp the languid night
where only lonely echoes blend last call with none at all,
beckon peace and solace from the last few drops of alcohol.

Cool the stagnant midnight air denies its musk of vapored breath,
sultry in its sticky dew attracts the lonely to a death
of dreams in steaming thunder burst, adrift in late night’s pleasure,
where sordid wisps of booze and flesh tarnish what the hope does treasure.

Beyond it all the pavement sings a wet and whining tune,
stroked by wheels of yellow cabs and puddles thick with summer’s moon
that lay the time to distance across the square through the town,
folds the lonely summer night into its haunts and sleeping gown.

Quiet rends the neon’s buzz to silence with a blink and fade,
leaving only yellow moon reflecting in the puddles made,
where summer’s rain collects in rusting pools at flirting’s stage,
lifting now the errant mask of midnight’s’ lonely cage.

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Good Summer

Softly drifts the summer’s hush
that dearly holds the moments still,
while willow leaves, in rhythm captured,
relent to memory’s greater will.

Bathed in scents of summer green,
as waning light gives way to dusk,
through garden’s verdant flush is twilled,
delivered sweet as warm day’s musk,

till here, in rest, retires…

Fresh cut summer grass,
ripened sweet tomato vine,
lavender in burgeoned bloom
adrift the dreams I call as mine.

Upon this season’s moment caught
I poll my histories’ waking,
recall these scents and breezes blushed
amidst the points of my own making…

Now sit…

Imbibe such sweet elixir,
grant my swim into the fold,
here moments passed form truth and treasure
to all the love and life I hold.

Good summer…

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Filed under Nature, Perspective, Poetry, Universal Soul

Daffodils

Where daffodils
once graced the hill
and held the silver rill
compliant,
now rests defined,
through waning time
and starves the course’s rhyme
to silent.

When once across
the lea she tossed
a heartfelt kiss embossed
in love,
now blows a wind
whose stark hands rend
what memory mends
beneath the glove.

Nearby stood
a quiet wood
whose home was good
and honest,
now fills with ghosts
and empty hosts
who echo whisper’s loving toasts
yet fearfully immodest.

Tho’ no truth rolls
across the folds
of meadows in the tolls
of time,
‘tis still these lays
of poetry stay
the lifelong play
of love in rhyme…

For even as the eons blend
a passing state of heart,
heaped upon this histories’ pyre
are hope and dreams, and true love’s start
that held the pausing when he claimed,
“you are mine, eternal”,
and bent the ether’s honest waves
when sure her heart felt love still vernal…

Today is just soliloquy…
today an echo of regret…
today an ancient memory,
passed closed doors that ne’er forget
the daffodils,
the singing rill,
the kiss cross meadow’s lea,
the forest sweet
with cot complete
and every verse of poetry…

It holds the ether’s silence calm
to those who pause to feel…
It offers what is true in love,
for those who need to heal.

In honor of Robert Burns and his “sweet Mary”

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Filed under History, Perspective, Poetry, True Love

Grace

Simple tho’ the waves retain their calling of the shore,
they bath in love’s inflection, reflected through the wanting more,
in constant gentle lapping, in soft seduction’s kiss,
they fold, unfold, recede to rise with purpose toward a dreaming bliss.

Coyly how the wind implies its gentle hush between the trees,
whose leaves reply in simple chime, quaking in the rhythm’s breeze,
yet holding fast exhilaration torn between the mounting gusts
that bear the point of rushing love, that blend the balm of forest’s must.

Lonely how the night awakes when to a full moon’s rise it bends
horizon’s light to welcome home that love the night will bright transcend,
and yet again as daybreak threatens night’s sweet secrets held,
it shades the sky in lover’s red and hints of lonely love now quelled.

Sorely how this nature’s want reaches through each passing phase
of light and wind and sea’s emotion surmounting all the lonely plays
that ride on every moment, that hold each flashing point in light,
that dream a dream of exultation, granted by their living right
to love, to want, to feel embrace
and through their own sweet blessing grant this living planet grace.

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Gossamer Thread

Spun in silence, a silver rhyme
stretched across a pedal’s pose,
captured small in non-assuming
glimpses of a summer’s rose,
whose fragrant folds in burgundy
entreat the kindest living heart,
who gently pulls a threaded line
that there upon sweet life takes part…
in morning’s captured dewdrop,
in midday’s buzzing busy bee,
in evening’s calm and respite…
no grander world or scale will see
or care to ponder longer,
or dream beyond with longing eye,
for by a gossamer thread and rose,
all life transcends us by and by.

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Posthumously

How do the fleeting moments slide beyond this desperate errant grasp?
How does this waning life of rhyme find a single point to clasp
within the hopes of purpose lain, within the humble want
that dreams of words in echo there
among the flaxen hopes, that haunt
the fabric of every day?

They dance in ether’s lacquered musk,
seduced by what the poet knows,
drunken in their wanton lust
that to the world, designed to show
that every day is bread and wine,
every day mundane,
repeated work in value’s void
is stiff and slanted highway rain.

But there the motivation comes
in anger of such wasted schemes,
that force eventuality paused,
suspended near the hopes and dreams
that greater purpose pricks the poet,
greater purpose pulls his soul,
greater meaning meant for others,
posthumous drifts ‘tween the poles
of temporal lines in lingering,
gestalt wrapped cross the evening sun
that folds a sinner’s dusk in death,
that drives the length toward when it’s done.

Are there points reflected in the mirror of what is God?
Are hints divine across the fabric strong in even, weak in odd?

Is it just too much to dream that sacrifice and duty’s truth will open doors while living?
Or is it just that what is blessed, is best when long since gone, it’s giving?

Oh! How my aching heart decries the hateful mourn of working day!
Oh! How the empty echoes pain the tasks that for tomorrow stay!

How can the soul in living form adjust to less than spirit,
when robbed of moments fleeting points, that ears left passed are few to hear it?

Sad the poet’s recompense that draws the bitter coins to purse,
leaving only two for crossing’s price and dues to pay the hearse.

Yet there upon the rippled Styx the faintest whispers heard,
repeating every lay and rhyme, repeating poet’s every word…

…posthumously.

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Midnight’s Terror

Softened through the echoed streams
of dream I so redeem
the instance of my calling,
and there within I scream
a silent howl ne’er set from lips,
stolen midst the ether there
in grunts and anxious sips
of what I dare to shout about,
of what I dare to stop,
then through the veil of stardust lacquer,
awake!
and back on top.

Darkened room, shadows lost
to hollow corner’s keeping,
drenched in midnight’s sweat of terror
and sandman’s wicked steeping.

Blended affirmation
of the haunt that cast me out,
quickly fading from my mind,
forgotten pricking to the shout
that seemed so dull and death like,
that crept from deep within
to hold my helpless hapless soul
enraptured, left to not defend
the missing piece of what it was,
what was it?
was it?
Was!

Don’t know, just empty dreaming now
through sleep bound eyes and yawning.
Safe within reality, yet
just enough to run from dawning’s
day ahead of midnight’s keep,
to sleep,
to sleep…
again I sleep.

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Filed under Dreams, Perspective, Poetry

Eyes of Soul

What do I see behind these eyes,
enrapt in living’s echoed timber?
What source in strength of spirit, I,
that burns the questions from mere ember?

What of these eyes that come to me,
in passing daily actions bent
to find their own known mal-affection
that from their living purpose rent?

See do they? See do I?
or do we think we see?
When yet our soul’s sweet purpose rings
in spirituality.

Unknown to me each presence.
Unknown, the purpose each heart seeks.
Unknown, each soul’s sweet resilience.
Unknown, each journey’s triumphed peaks.

Yet to their eyes I look each day
and try to bring approval,
or maybe just a passing smile
for souls behind each pair’s perusal.

I feel the great connection,
the fabric spun from God in life,
in which we bend reflections to
the solving of each other’s strife.

I know sincere inflections stand
in spirit, soul, and human hand.
I know we blend to form the truth
of what is truth, of what we can.

Here now my day light passes,
that from my walking presence lay
a spirit down to sleep in me,
and through my lips in conscious pray,

“Blessed I am through kindness given
and that which I return.
Thankful, as I am in living
for what’s been granted, and what’s been learned.”

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I Write

I write between the fleeting moments
where time subsides in crescent waves,
lends me just my shadows earned,
collects my penance paid.

Here amidst the scattered moments
thoughts of day joust through my mind,
tarry contest for the bidding
of what attention I’ll give in kind.

But alas –

Denounced, these wayward fleeting thoughts
fall away in disrepair,
die among the gladiolas
rooted ‘long this road’s despair.

And to my heart and settled mind
I lend this ebbing patient song,
to find the words to catch me,
to seek some peace and hold it long.

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Poet’s Night

Quiet does this moment lie
when dusk surrenders to the night.
Soft the shadows gather ‘round
to blur the focused edge of light.
Subtle does the scent arise
from blossomed spring in calling.
Slow the breath of life unwinds
into this moment’s pleasure, falling.

Here the day’s repaired,
the tasking rendered ghost.
Here the soul drifts free from care,
granting what is needed most…

Cello… piano… wine… cigar…
silent in release… reflecting…
moonlit clouds… revealing star…
free to dream, heart selecting
memories of love and youth,
rolling through suspended truth…

…until the music fades…

with only blood dripped stains of wine
to count the scattered ashes,
to count the precious moments played,
mixed throughout the ink’s dark splashes
in what this heart has spilled
upon this page in poetry filled.

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