Time expands
beyond the linear framework of our bodies
falling, flowing,
tides ever growing
A soft lapping reminder
of the briefness of this light
Space declines
between the canyons of our souls
racing, chasing,
seeking for embracing
A hopeful passing chance
of connection in this dark
A ragged silence
punctured by scratching thought and muted breath
along one line of time
expands and falls
through winding lanes of minds
who decay before the;
Wind, bellows on the door,
“it’s time to come out my son”
O, why fair mother do you call?
“the breeze is right
and time unwinds
loose your writer’s grip
and fall apart
from the still.”
I’d like to go without a rhyme
at least for some extent of time
But alas! two lines is all I find
(No three!) ‘Fore my specter shows her hand
without a set of rules and guides
this poem may yet deserve,
to serve as something, not for you,
but for my mind, o noble friend,
its worth may not be found
But alas, what have I said?
back to rhyme I now have fled
lest these lines contain no meaning
besides some poet’s longful leaning
In unknown woods I first did find
this soul of which I now shall rhyme
for surely it deserves far more
Moved by freedom set on wings
to fly to where the world is seen
and pass along her quite lore;
How swift!
and what remorse
for mine cannot take that course
to dance atop the peaks—
of joyful splendor deep
to dance along the gleam
of poets love in dream
How numb!
when to my eyes that glow does come
like distant stars long passed
whose light doth betray a past—
of charity to souls outstretched
in hopes of shining before death
In unknown woods I first did find
this soul of which I now have rhymed
and surely it deserved far more
A journey rests ahead
so to our capsule we have fled
lest we find ourselves behind
that ticking clock we’re taught to dred
Windows gaze
through window haze
while rapid rolling couches
convey us through a maze
Sealed safe inside
alone; we arrive
untouched, unheard, unknown
save those which with we drive
It’s getting rather dark, you see,
To sit upon a roof and read
So inside now will I return
To watch the fire slowly burn
And pass my time in mediation
On love and passion’s transmutation
To seek once more the holy word
That shall steady this old soul my Lord
An answer— simple for those poets
Who can write, it seems, on none beside it
Where I instead do surely falter
To set to rhyme, or even word
The essence of this love and lover
So grant me one last grace
O, but choose to show your face
And erase for me this looming doubt
That love be naught but poet’s clout.
Красавица моей любови,
мне показывайте вашей души
чтобы я могу писать это—
стих правды и преданности.
В чужой земле сбился с пути
одинокий поэт любя
Cement carcasses
left adrift by a failed defense
It seems time has naught on the vulture
who picks our past clean
of memories we’d rather lose
Though rather is not ought
and the lack of that great winged beast
may yet be our saving grace
Cement carcasses
left adrift by a failed defense
along the tattered coast of history
where tales imprint
upon our oft-forgetful minds
Though oft is not all
and the mark of their imprint
may yet ensure no vulture’s feast
be prepared by us once more.
Crowing cock
Morning block
Awaken children of the land
Dirtied hands
Empty plans
Sleep now fathers of the land
The son will rise again.
She awoke that morning to the familiar intrusion of the Sun’s early rays breaching the defenses of her tattered curtains. It was Sunday. A day of relief, of solace, and of rest — a message apparently lost on the ever-eager sun. Nonetheless, she tossed back the sheets and dangled her feet cautiously above the wooden floor, testing it with her toes like a small child teetering on the brink of a plunge into unknown waters. It seemed to her a vast distance to traverse in order to reach the warmth of the ritual morning shower — but habits do not fall away by mere inconvenience. So, with a sharp intake of breath, she took the plunge.
He had not slept that night, driven by the lunar lights to stroll the empty streets. Had it not been for that solar reminder perhaps he would have wandered on indefinitely. But alas, even he was subject to the shifting of days. He blinked wildly battling the glinting rays. His feet finally took him as far as fatigue allowed. At last, back in his humble apartment the morning church bells played a lullaby. So, with a soft exhale of breath, he dreamt.
