Clay

It smells like art
she said
and the clay
formerly
formless
watched us
watching it
mold itself
into shapes
a myriad
of possibilities
that begged
each and everyone
for fingertips

to be upon them

Forest Floor

on the forest floor
lay the souls of evergreens
trees that will not be

The Mad Man’s Words

all is gently dying
so extolled the mad man’s words
all the life fades from the world
and no melodies are heard,

but he is mad and sees not spring
save for graves freshly turned
yet here too does life sing out
for debts from winter earned.

all is gently growing
birthed in hesitant new days
so we’ll forget the mad man’s notes
whilst death is hid away.

on reading of a funeral

these fine eulogies
are as the graveside lilies
cursed to fade away

Ravens

black feathered shadows
cast upon my closing eyes
I dream of ravens

Verse without a rhyme

the cold night plans the darkest schemes
and tries from us its power to take
so now rest gentle in my dreams
until warm dawns dictate we wake.

Monuments

so vain are our kings
they build a thousand fountains
while rivers run dry.

Red Letter Day

the day you were born
springtime chose to welcome you
with its broadest smile

Garden

what is a garden
with no serpent’s lure therein
where be the wonder?

die Brise der Romantik

this dream of her
music of a mystic harp
carried on an unfamiliar wind
the fragrance of quince
and exotic oranges
mixed with foreign perfumes
this dream intoxicates
yet sobers my resolve
so I listen to the music
inhale the citrus air
and on that unfamiliar wind
her singing calls me near.