Tag Archives: Pondering

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.


Filed under Nature, Perspective, Poetry, Universal Soul


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…



Filed under Perspective, Poetry, Universal Soul

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.”


Filed under Perspective, Poetry, Universal Soul

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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Filed under Perspective, Poetry

The Poet’s Eternal Blood

When ink no longer flows from wells
through pens that bring the poet’s tale –
When stars decline to shine through nights
of bible black and moonless heights –
When breezes fail to stir the musk
of woodland’s stagnant summer husk –

Tis then my heart will write in blood
by candle flame of passion’s flood
drawn sweet across my sweating skin
to bring it all to life again!

When fate denies the hands of time,
freezing metronomes in rhyme –
When strings and bow default to mute,
failing note’s enamored suit –
When carol and the chorus gone
from symphonies’ now retched song –

Tis then that I by stomping foot
will raise the rhythm from the soot,
howling loud with dog and cat
to mount this music strong and fat!

When life blood dries and I have gone
to brighter pastures, green and long –
When heart beat thrums have left my chest
and drift in ashes final rest –
When hands are cold and voices dry,
when worldly sparks deny my eye –

Tis then that I will rise again
through souls of ink and nibs of pen!
Tis then this poet’s art will thrive
and through the ages come alive!


Filed under Perspective, Poetry, Universal Soul

The Reed’s Lament

Bow to time in passing tide,
as reed beneath the strong spring’s flow,
in desperate stance against the current,
fingers white not letting go.

Last summer’s ancient memory calls
of standing tall midst songs of thrush,
whistling in the breezes there
that call their tunes in quiet rush.

Autumn faded fast to winter’s
standing cold near bank and glade,
christened stiff in season’s charge,
a soldier of the browning blade.

Yet hope held fast for fervent spring
when last all dues were done,
that here amidst the daffodils
would sweetly hear the spring creek run,
that here the hard earned penance paid
would grant reward near burgeoned spring,
to rejoice “at last I’ve made it!”
while chickadees and warblers sing.

How cruel this unexpected life
that drowns him in the current now,
bound by winter’s run-off,
must to its raging currents bow.

Spring will let to mending roots
of hope now torn from place,
drawn from sun’s sweet giving life
to patch the straining tears that face
the distant threat of winter
while standing midst a summer’s seam
with only hope to focus toward
the healing of his hopes and dream.

Cruel the tide of season’s mix
upon this changing earth,
granting life and death through chance
twixt distant temporal poles of birth.


Filed under Nature, Perspective, Poetry, Universal Soul

Midnight Peace

Amidst this city’s bustle,
peace, itself, comes in shadowed waves
between the pulse of traffic signals
and above the white noise din it craves.

Yet in the late night hour,
when season’s moon is hushed and full,
summer’s heat brakes the riot
and lays it down in lullaby’s lull.

In these eternal moments,
singular prints of traffic drone
a pinpoint at my ear’s horizon,
gently whir until it’s gone.

The alleyway draws into
the dissonant purr of a window fan,
scuttled only for an instant
by the pattering squeak of the mouse that ran.

The park side pond grows rich in chorus
with bullfrogs’ songs of rich delight,
as quaking moonlit shadowed elms
whisper motion and move the light
of such a season’s moon.

This peace here found is rarely known
beyond the midnight lunch break clan,
but in this hush the city shows
the fabric true beneath its stand.

I’ve come accustomed to this bench
in city park where night-shifts lunch.
Does grant a peace for a weary soul.
Does bless me what I need so much.

There is a ‘coon that visits me
at half past twelve, each night it’s clear.
Begs a nut or M&M
and stands a yard away to hear
me speak of all the daily woes,
of bills and taxes and political rants,
listens to my thoughts of love
and will sometimes watch me dance…

He comes alone as if a pact
we’ve made is to be honored.
He waits in gentle repose, kind,
until our time this peace has garnered
just what our souls so need.

And as my duties call me back,
he too unto his duties heeds.
I close my lunch pail with a smile
and thank the night for this peace indeed.

The moonlight melds to sodium light
as through the alley I return
to task and job and this city’s beat
with a kinder frame of mind so earned.

Upon the waves of city’s hustle
there comes a giving peace,
that if you look between the hours
you’ll find a bit of sweet release…


Filed under Perspective, Poetry, Universal Soul

The Burden

Subtle waves of rapture roll o’er my earthly crown, granting peace as moments strained resolve into the sound of sighs caught at the work day’s end, as tired defeat stirs sweet relief, so whispers to my driven heart, “it’s more that I bequeath”…

Reflection on the long day done sees little to behold, just more of what was faced this morn’, tomorrow still, one more day old, and sold to what the pressures force, built amongst the plies, yet glue’s what I commence to bring to weld the mis-laid “whys”…

So herein my experience brings journey to the flailing, returns them home with guidance born upon their moves so failing.  But I, alas, renounced to push, defined to lead the stray across their inexperience in hopes that they might stay one ounce of tacking knowledge acquired to their line, yet grateful in contention stand within the hope of being kind.

Frustration burdens hard the yoke experience grants to tow, yet won in victories triumph, holds the strength of what I know.  “It’s more that I bequeath”…  yet failing chords of unheard words, point to greater self-relief, lost in phrases wayward herds.  I pray my past finds refuge in the hands and minds of some who care, that they may know the secret and my burden with me share.

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Filed under Perspective, Poetry, Universal Soul

Poet Cow

Stories told at sunset’s arc
when last the barn doors come to close,
echo frames throughout the day,
recalled in honor, artful prose
that’s spoke in hushing laughter
yet cast about in formal style,
applauded when the speaker bows
returning to the trough a while.

Amidst the hay and feed there,
the poet cow enthralls in song,
crafted day’s end stories
collected from the farm’s sweet throng
of horses bound to duty,
of cows molested milking tales,
of mice in chase and cats who beg
to steal a sip from milking pales,
of chicks and hens who peck about
in counting grains of sand,
of dogs who walk in mending fences
beneath the gentle farmer’s hand.
Oh! The stories conjured,
each verse with vim and vigor flows,
weaves the country’s subtle life
with dreams caught twixt the piglet’s toes.

The poet cow in bashful eye
unmasks his soul when dusk is past,
turns the stanzas fluently
till all nod off and sleep is cast.
Then to himself he mutters low,
in Shakespeare tone and manner borrowed,
“Good Night, Good night! … that I shall say
good night till it be morrow.”


Filed under Nature, Perspective, Poetry

Grandfather Clock

Silence drones the space between
the ticking of the clock,
grants eternal patience
swept in pendulum’s play to mock.

The tension of the winding spring
stands the air to crème,
as hopeful hesitation calms
the pensive chimes to dream.

Built to serve a purpose.
Left to witness life.
Counting every breaking hour
twixt sweeps of joy and strife.

Dusted here in tender care
by shaking grey and lucid hands,
in hopes to hear its chimes once more
and toll this hall’s passing, grand,
for yet another hour.


Filed under History, Memory, Perspective, Poetry, Universal Soul