The moon shone red as the metal crate
hurdled across the sky
and the night hawk asked the swallow,
“Do you know what it is to die?”
The swallow flew quick figure eights
and the cylinder shot right on
“The moon has been struck a glancing blow
and his light will soon be gone.”
The nighthawk flew his spiral
around the figure eight,
“I am Apollo’s evening spear
You share the lunar fate.”
The plane shot out of earshot
but the chuckle carried far,
“The moon will dance in darkest death,
and then outshine the stars.”
Loss is not expected
A moment asserts eternity
The land slides at the overlook
I often start with nonsense
And make my way towards sense
To start off any other way
Is to wander near the cliffs.
I like to take my wandering thought
And bring it home to pen.
But what do we do about the cat
searching beyond its ken?
I like to think my journeys
Will always end at home
Smile cold from ocean mist,
the kettle on for tea.
The cat left home at teatime
I tried to call his name,
But he had never seen the cliffs in fog
And was tired of all this speech.
The weeping tree was red with loss
Dripping orange in the pale moon
And all the night around was blue
The night the young tree wept.
The young tree lay bare in the cold dawn,
But before the cold day the grief glowed,
Fire flowing from trunk to stem
Golden ichor dripping where leaves once blew.
Metamorphosis will always be a spiritual affair
The via dolorosa comes upon man and tree alike
There is no beauty in the wounds of death,
But the passage through fire will always be a dance.
With every color splashed on feathers,
the peacock dances, her tail a symphony of leaves,
illustrated with finely inked berries.
Memories pass too quickly, Along the electric road
Luckily they’re all headed for where the lightning grows.
There light plays in different colors across the gleaming sky
There too all things forgotten remember days gone by.
Put away the cameras
Hide away the pen
Minimize the digital
The scene will soon begin.
Life is not a drama,
Not in the way you think,
It is the wind that whips your hair
And muffles the words you speak.
Life is in clammy fingers
Which slide against the palm
But you wouldn’t have it differently
Even if your heart was calm.
We do not need their sensors
To show how life should be
The eye takes better pictures
with no intermediary.
For life will fit no medium,
No poem can rock a crib,
It cannot quite be painted
I believe it can just be lived.
“That lady’s talking and there’s no one there.”
“Don’t stare she’s probably on the phone.”
“…nobody treats me like family.
Family, now that’s the most important thing.”
“Why are her eyes like that Mommy?”
“It’s not polite to stare. Sit down.”
“My brother thought he was important,
Now look where he is, the no good…”
“There’s too much white in her eyes.”
“Why won’t you sit? sit. sit. sit!”
“He stole my present from the tree
Ripped to shreds, paper everywhere.”
“She’s definitely not on the phone Mom.”
“We’re on a train honey you can’t pay attention to people.”
“Good times like that won’t come again,
He took the money, now he won’t even talk.”
“Mom I think she might be…”
“They’re all staring, but family doesn’t care.
Family stays by your side forever.
Why won’t anyone treat me like family?”
Back in the days when “Trick or Treat”
contained a cruel malicious threat,
when spirits slunk beneath your feet
in the form of a household pet,
the world was dark and filled with noise
and perhaps evil did walk the streets;
we laugh it off as an ancient toy
used to make the darkness cease,
but something makes our hearts beat now
as the basement door swings shut.
The swinging bulb flickers slow
the heart mimics till the light cuts.
Bulb and heart imagine what fills
the space, both from within and out,
in a world where evil still kills
The magical exchanged for the mechanized.
A million faces is humanity
Noses shaped a thousand different ways,
Smiles cocked at forty-five different angles,
A million ears as odd as ears will always be,
A million eyes with patterns utterly unique,
A million quests behind those eyes,
A million lives lived in a search,
Or lived in denial of the search,
A million eyes closed at evening’s end,
A million souls more varied than a face
Wander even as their eyes are closed.