the rains of April fell in May
washing all the doubts away
that sterile dawns and barren eves
had my thirsting soul believe
for without rain where do thoughts run
from constant shadows of the sun
their travails go round and round
and lift not from the dusty ground
but storms are rich and fertile things
thus inspiration they may bring
in leaping, lashing waterfalls
no wonder that the rainclouds call
to me in the spring’s refrains
thus blessed be the May that rains.

Thermopylae (a path of memory)

we sang our songs under the hill
and drank until the sun had died
it was to us as sacred soil
our youthful dreams in its ground lie

we kissed our first under this hill
and battled inexperience
loved in the shadows of its mill
unfettered by impermanence

to this day when thoughts retreat
and regrets cloud them with their sighs
to spring shadows now defeated
by time’s hand, at our Thermopylae

The Red Dream

only the finest feathers
blood red and full of fire
could a worthy mantle make
her body to attire
and in these crimson vestments
she stepped into my thoughts
seductive dark a mystery
my imaginings to court
then her words did beckon me
words garbed in unknown tongues
like ancient wisdom’d poetry
her bidding songs were sung
and on her music was I lost
as to a siren’s call
that no matter what the cost
to her my soul would fall
thus from her splendour she disrobed
and on her form I dwelled
could not temptation’s mind decide
be this paradise or hell.