Mistress Moon


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Her face is frost etched glass
floating in the blue-black winds of the night;
she illuminates footsteps hushed
on decayed and dampened leaves;
grieves for freshly planted souls
who have turned from the light of day.

Her midnight corset is tightly laced
by the dazzling tails of falling stars;
she moves in phases
with the  tempered grace of a childless empress
wandering silently and with bowed head
through the cold shadows of winter’s garden.

She seduces the wolf and the poet
with equal ambivalence, each of whom
compose for her dream-soaked arias
and haunting sonnets that speak of
promises never meant to be kept.

She mourns her  powdered reflection
as it ripples across frozen lakes:
hides behind silver-lined clouds when
she can no longer bear the loneliness
of her shadowy journey across granite
mountaintops and sleeping meadows.

At last, in the cool, grey light of morning,
as the sun softly caresses her porcelain
cheek with warm fingers of breaking light,
she sighs but once, then slowly fades into
the rose colored blush of a new day.

The Seasons of Life


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In the youngest years, there is fear and pain.

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In the middle years, there is ecstasy, laughter,
hope, promise. happiness, delight, pleasure, bliss,
confidence, optimism, courage, faith, joy, desire,
hopefulness, buoyancy, brightness, anticipation,
choice, sex, cheerfulness, and contentment.

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In the older years, there is fear and pain.

A Lingering Pain


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In another life, we would call this love.

Today it is just a lingering pain,
clenched fistfuls of it lashing forth upon the shore.
The oceans scream.

We want crisis, oh, how we hunger for it.

When we were young, we ate sorrow without sugar
before losing ourselves in the forest of shame.
Beyond our innocence, beneath our yearning yokes,
we lay together secretly in this seashore cavern;
frantic with love.

I was the lazy one, eating your peach without washing it;
writing a song for my supper
and with a bare mouth, kissing the very ankle
that kicks the life out of me today.
Our bodies rolled in and out like the tides
and in the forgotten distance, the thunder laughed
at our selfish lust.

Today, the beach below is sliced by dying rivers
brown-blue and reaching for the seawater;
One wet finger of water traces into the cavern
and licks our naked feet, causing me to
momentarily thrust too deep
while you, asleep, curse the very dream of me.

We met here once, as children full of hope,
our thirsts slaked in the moistness of the cave.
The ash-white hotness of passion powdering your fingertips
upon the small of my back, pulling me into your deeper meaning,
so hot then the sands turned to glass
crunching and shattering beneath our frantic embrace.

In that life, we called it love.

Today, the moon sucks the tides back to her
jealous bosom, leaving us naked and thrashing
like dying fish upon the shore.

Today, my love, is just a lingering pain.

It Is The Season


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“God talks in the trees.”
— Thomas Merton, The Sign of Jonas

It is the season of sleeping late
while dreaming of red-orange trees
shuddering in the evening breeze.
These are the short days
when the thirst for warmth suborns desire
and Eros kisses summer love goodnight.

It is the season of crimson sunsets
pouring slowly, like thick molasses,
over church steeples and frozen riverbeds.
When snow-pregnant clouds float lazily
across flower-less meadows
and lovers seek shelter beneath heavy quilts.

It is the season of naked trees,
with branches like fingers extending
toward the setting sun, tracing delicate arches
across the rose autumn sky.
Those days when the blackbird flies southward
into the night beneath crystal constellations.

It is the season of surrender,
when burdens, like the yellowing leaves,
fall silently to the frozen earth
and tired bones warm themselves before tended fires.
It is the season of dying in the palm of God’s hand;
comforted in the knowledge of spring’s resurrection.

i never had a plan for you


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you push and pull, like wolves at the door,
and all i hear is this discordant humming.
you play only the black keys, the sharp keys,
and your music screams of pain.
but isn’t that the choice?

we’ve come a long and lonely way
to owe ourselves to wolves
each howl a dying little light of the soul
i don’t remember, did we take this road together?
did you see our wings fold together?

you have a wanderlust growing in your soul
and live where ashes take the form of houses
all around the grounds we see a flashlight metronome,
that skips to sleep in leaps, lock and key, or latchkey…
a house you tricked empty because
you knew they would take it back, piece by piece.

who do we let it in? do we have a choice?
you said you don’t even like to be seen
in the parking lot, beneath the moon
and the drinking of the glass…
whatever the hell that means

i’m sorry again for everything i’ve been
and all the things i wasn’t
i’d sink to your city streets if i wasn’t buried in your hands
there is nothing out there; i do not hear what you hear
regardless of everything, i came to know you as a relic
you are ashes falling between my burnt fingers

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A Godly Silence


silent-god

 

I speak to God in silent phrase
And offer up my heartfelt praise
Yet silence is His voice to me
He shows no earthly empathy

My prayers are but a silent wind
And I a storm that’s lost within
A body crushed beneath the weight
Of loss, regret, and certain fate

In slow descent, the spirit ebbs
Dead within this mortal dread
Yet silent still His saving grace
A void I feel within this place

No comfort shall I know this day
My God has simply slipped away
And in his place a dark despair
Hot ashes flowing everywhere

The pain increases even still
All that’s left is my free will
And so, I chose another path
Turning from His vengeful wrath

His Son was slowly crucified
So He might feel more sanctified
Though in the hour of my need
His sacrifice is lost on me.

 

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Celladora


Celladora,
whose softly curved lips
reveals a smile beneath
my soft-pressed kiss;

she takes me to the place,
exactly where I always meant to go;
outside of time and place,
past flesh to thought –

I dissolve in her radiant reflection.
Her love is an image of the world
made small enough to hold inside my mind;
an exploration of that inward beauty
where the borderlines  of “she” and “I” meet
between the real and the imagined,
the present and the past,
the lost and the found,
the lasting and eternal.

Time seems almost to dissolve.
With her, everything is an
infinite exploration and discovery
of the self and the universal,
and I, the jouncing and jostling
wilderness traveler,
constantly adjusting the gear
on my back, steeling my resolve,
finding my footing and heading off
upon unchartered paths.

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Fade to Heaven


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Time comforts me, though the clock winds down
And I’m driven to the ticking of another sound
My heart beats so softly, in erratic measure
Comes now an end to this life I have deeply  treasured

I have done my best, or so shall I plead
As the Book of Life will surely read
When comfort was asked, I held out my hand
I shared what I had without a demand

Solace I gave to those deep in sorrow
Lived for today, and prayed for tomorrow
The sick I did comfort, the hungry I fed
If needed I fought, and oftentimes bled

For the weak and the child with no one to care
To fill them with love and crush their despair
My joys and my sorrows, both equally scattered
Like dying fall leaves that no longer  matter

Now days turn to hours, and hours to minutes
Now comes to a close this life with me in it
Softly my prayers in last utterance fall
“Grace be upon me, I’ve given my all.”

The Speed of Life


old-age

 

I’ve threaded the needle once or twice
And paid the price for my sacrifice.
But now old age has tempered me
I’m not the man I used to be.

When I was younger, or so it seemed,
I still had strength and hopeful dreams;
With youthful promise I fought for love –
Reached for the heaven and stars above

Countless days lost in desire,
Lived to set the world on fire.
But now my time has much diminished:
Where once I started, now I’m finished

Youthful dreams do mock my nights
I now awaken to winter lights.
My life unfolds in finite measure,
Robbed of all the things I treasure.

The circle of life has run its course,
And to this point I reinforce:
Don’t lay to waste each given day –
For all too soon we fade away.

 

Echoes Across Time


time

 

Love never dies…
it echoes across time.

It is like a circle
revolving
with no beginning,
no end.

The pain of love diminishing
as it journeys to the far side
of the circle is real
and deep….
but remember the joy
before the pain
and listen for the echo.

Love has no dimension,
yet it clearly defines
all that it touches.

Memories are
the images carved
as love passes along
our side of the circle;
life’s subtle reminder
to hold on
and listen
as love echoes across time.

Cast your ear
to yesterday’s wind,
if you must;
do not be too surprised
when the sounds you seek
reach back to you from
tomorrow.

Echoes bounce in time and space
for that is their nature –
but they must return,
for that is their truth.

The circle cannot be denied.

Love cannot die…
it echoes across time.

 

The Winter Bites My Bones


winter

 

The winter bites my bones

Standing all alone amongst the howling winds,
I count my sins and shiver, shiver, shiver
Icy cold reflections freeze me to the spot
No longer will I find warmth in my denials
Numb and quaking, I huddle amongst the fallen leaves
And like them, slowly decay and fade away.

The winter bites my bones

Chewing my frozen flesh with teeth of sharp icicles
Darkness descends and I am numbingly consumed.
The frozen ground will not receive me
Shallow breathes hang before me, vaporized and still
Muscles aching from too much holding on

As the winter bites my bones.

 

Three Seasons of Life


images (1)

In the youngest years, there is fear and pain

images (2)

In the middle years, there is ecstasy, laughter,
hope, promise. happiness, delight, pleasure, bliss,
confidence, optimism, courage, faith, joy, desire,
hopefulness, buoyancy, brightness, anticipation,
choice, sex, cheerfulness, and contentment.

Old woman

In the final years, there is fear and pain.

12:08 A.M.


clock

12:08 A.M.

At least I think it was 12:08 A.M.
My eyes were wet and unfocused
as I hunched over the toilet,
regurgitating about $200 worth of
top-shelf vodka.

It might be 12:03 A.M.,
I just don’t know.
Everything is blurry and
the indiglo clock on the towel shelf
kept blinking faster than I could read.

I wiped my mouth on the right sleeve
of my cashmere sports jacket
and with my left hand,
flushed the john two or three times.

Again with the numbers!
It always comes down to the fucking numbers!

If the police ever question me about
where I was on the rainy night of  October 14, 2013
at either 12:03 A.M. or 12:08 A.M.,
I’m pretty sure, like the filthy tiles surrounding the toilet,
I had it covered.

Midnight Floods


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The crumbling, mossy stone-bridge
achingly arches over the murky river
like a rusted rainbow over
staled expectations.
Its stooped railings still
tingle at the memory of
all the hands
– hopeful, sprightly, enraged,
tired, frightened, infatuated-
touching them.
The water drags its gray tongue
between the cheerless banks,
while muddy blades of grass
huddle up under a senile
weeping willow that
can’t remember whom
was it weeping for.
The grotesque conspiracy
of the weather elements
has muddied the daylight.
Night?
Night.
Endless, rainy, muddy night!

Echoes of Paradise


My memories are full and round.
I clasp them between my palms,
supranational spheres of times left behind.
They are unbreakable, solid, and beautiful.
Echoes stuck in an infinite loop of movements;
falling in love and dying over and over again.
It would be easy to let go.
Unbelievably easy just to separate my hands
and let them fall to the ground.
Instead I swallowed them.
They knock around in my chest when I breathe.
Ringing like a wind chime made of glass marbles;
if you listen closely you can hear the patterned glass
clinking against one another when I talk,
causing cracks in my smile when I say hello.

A Poet’s Affection


Measured in phases, the marking of time;
I lived four months, six months,
a couple of weeks before moving on.
There were no long-term relationships –
one night, maybe a week, perhaps two.

Love was too expensive for a traveler,
much too heavy to carry in a bag or box.
I put my days on paper, ending one story,
another poem filed away, me moving on.
There would always be another day,
another pretty face, a warm body
to hold through another cold night .
True love by the day or week, I could afford that.

That’s what I thought at the time.

I sold my poems, sad stories, many years ago.
I didn’t sell them for money;
it was always a trade , a fair exchange I thought.
The perfect and ideal love
burning so bright, but not very long.

Echoes Across Time


Love never dies…
it echoes across time.

It is like a circle
revolving
with no beginning,
no end.

The pain of love diminishing
as it journeys to the far side
of the circle is real
and deep….
but remember the joy
before the pain
and listen for the echo.

Love has no dimension,
yet it clearly defines
all that it touches.

Memories are
the images carved
as love passes along
our side of the circle;
life’s subtle reminder
to hold on
and listen
as love echoes across time.

Cast your ear
to yesterday’s wind,
if you must;
do not be too surprised
when the sounds you seek
reach back to you from
tomorrow.

Echoes bounce in time and space
for that is their nature –
but they must return,
for that is their truth.

The circle cannot be denied.

Love cannot die…
it echoes across time.