half rhyme

The Ritual

these lines betray ceremony
a composition’s liturgy
which determines
if these words
are ever to be heard
or if the page in time
will burn
but should they form a poetry
of these emotions known to me
then the rite
of how I write
will find its rhyme
and remain unto the world

lines writ on summer storms

what is it of the summer rains
that prelude a pensive dream
of thee
in more golden frames
of twilight setting sunshine days
when storm clouds
are but memory?

It is I sense
the thankfulness
that all is but passing, impermanent
and we shall one day
the golden eves of our last hours
in fingers locked