At times I may forget it in the midst of the mundane When the sound of your soft breathing, unobtrusive as the rain Is puncturing the night, soft and slow, full and real That we once walked in misted evenings, starlight we could feel. And we surrendered memories beneath the…
A million ways to scatter light And change the future overnight, And yet you rest content with one. Don't leave your work of art undone. 'Tis your own breath: 'tis full and real Of life and beauty. Into dark Your innovation launches sparks; Oh art and…
Nobody else writes poems like I do. The fixed-form poet's art is old and dry. It limits creativity? Not true. But yes, perhaps its day is long gone by. Oh wait--there are yet writers springing free On heels of metered verse and rhyming ends. Alright: nobody writes in…
I once beheld dreams as leaves Green and full of life Their veins clear against the sunlight Never to see autumn Never to let go Never to crinkle. But some I behold now as at end of summer wondering if fall will come on them after all. Crushed to brown…
I asked you why I suffered such and such. It matters not the means; it's all the same To suffer little and to suffer much. For both bespeak a dying world's worst shame-- That goodness won't prevail in every sense. Why won't…
Wisdom's house is firmly built; her seven pillars raised. Her wine and bread on table spread--a feast a king would praise. And out she sends her servant-maids to call at twilight hour To those of foolish character to come nigh and devour The bread of learning, and be…
The corner of the white-walled room is hung with stair-like stars. The inches squared where cobwebs dwell is where the cosmos are. The cosmos of the my white-walled mind are brimming with the light of forces, of creation-- imagining the night. The white-walled cosmos of the night my psyche bends…
The war I wage with words is endless, beautiful and cursed. The ink, the letter, syllables--they express but they confine. Nevertheless I break the rules; nevertheless I am restrained. What then will be wrought? Will it be beauty, or remain Nothing more than words? postscript For day 2 of This…