Firing Squad

In my dream
Goya is painting me
blindfolded
not just I
but also he
and muskets
take aim
and shot through
the brain
a coup de grace
of the infinite
eights
varied by Bach
the music of eternity.

All The Clocks Are Wrong Again

between one and two today
sixty minutes ran away
their intent to skip and play
through fields of summer flowers
but they’ll be back in six month’s time
and into all our clocks they’ll climb
if only then to fix this rhyme
and thus restore our hours.

5-7-5 (take four-hundred-and-ninety-seven : kiss)

the sun kissed the lake
preparing her lips for mine
and time seemed to stop

Brigit’s Dawn

She wakes the wrights
inspires the scribes
summons the world
to come alive
from winter’s depths
she draws the seed
and seeks to sway
its fertile deeds
and as she proceeds
Imbolc is fired
to bring forth the flames
of new life sired.

Objet

without a head
eyes formed upon her breasts
and returned the gaze
of a million suitors
disdainfully

5-7-5 (take four-hundred-and-ninety-six : sunrise)

the hour is golden
and shining with melodies
from jeweled branches

UNTITLED

in lieu of a heart
a phoenix burned
cursed with desires
beyond reason
wings wide afire
with each new passion
from flame to ashes
and ashes to flame
the cycle would renew

5-7-5 (take four-hundred-and-ninety-five : farben)

all of her colours
run into a thousand hues
painting by numbers

Black River (unfinished)

outside my door a river flows
black as pitch yet cold as snow
and in its deathly yield doth sow
the end of that I used to know

its shores are that of memory
those sweet sands where I used to be
with all that had meaning for me
now washed away in this black stream

By and By

by and by, he had wrote
knowing that each scribbled note
was not simply throw away
but carefully compiled to say
that his love was steadfast, true
and written with a heart imbued
to tell of passion’s written sighs
in notes so far from by and by.