Poppies

who needs the poet
when we have fields of poppies
they are verse enough

Extinguish

extinguish the fire
we have nothing left to burn
save desire itself

Hope

hope is a prison
from which no parole is due
until it is lost

Fingers

the dark’s fingers reach
to caress flesh tumescent
that it may serve her

Summer’s End

the summer is gone
it spins away in the silver flashes
of a spider’s web
caught in the rays
of the fading June sun.

Ash

tomorrow is ash
scattered from yesterday’s pyres
onto today’s winds

Darkness

the darkness speaks a thousand tongues
each of discord’s malice’d tears
yet of this myriad of voices
’tis mine alone which stokes my fears.

Faded

I inhale the light
captured on a photograph
faded by the years

Sunday

I shall die on Sunday
in one coming July
to the sound of bossa nova bees
and the scent of honeysuckle high

I shall drift on Sunday
under my last blue sky
tasting first kiss memories
on petals brushing by

I shall leave on Sunday
and not hear Monday cry
for Sunday waits beyond the trees
whispering all goodbyes.

My Heart Is Made of Little Birds

my heart is made of little birds
though they cannot soar, they fly
in ways that winds can fathom not
and through the hardest rains reply
by taking wing despite the days
that try in vain to spirits break
so in my heart these birds do sing
and of its clay a soul can make.