Paved

in grey, one day
they paved the world
denying even
their place within
and yet in green
with stems that furled
from gaps between
to break the chains
that bound the earth
the plants regained
that which man
had sought to tame.

The Old Man on Helvellyn

it is imagined artifice
ivory bolts of pigment scratched
upon a shadowed sky
a storm, the midst of which
“strange seas of thought”
in doldrum or in tumult caught
are on a tired browline etched
as were so many squalls and cries
over a lifetime sketched.

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
discarded
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
imparted.

An Ocean Swells

my eyes closed
I can hear the ocean
communing with the rocks
the crashing climax
demanded
by a hundred moons

then my thoughts turn inward
to where she swells
to where our lust
for landfall dwells
it is there
I seek my solace
within her maelstrom

Navigator

upon this dark river
I do not drift nor break
though the current is strong
my rudder is steady held
for I seek her estuary
and the oceans that lie beyond.

New Thought

I thought of something else today,
not the background
which forms in every way
the forefront of my imaginings
I thought of something new today,
an unfamiliar intent
that will in time’s play
recess, no doubt, to behind the scenes
of the next and newest dreams
that may tomorrow come.

The Blues

I know the blues
yet here
above a smaller world
they too seem less
I mean
there is still hopelessness
just not blue
but another hue.

The Loud Silence

there is silence
breath unheard
construed as words
slipped
from lips
known
yet not kissed
a song
loud as butterflies
half seen
among the mist

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
fragility,
and we shall one day
hold
the golden eves of our last hours
in fingers locked
eternally.

Cherry Blossom (unfinished)

it is a scented memory
as blossom on the cherry tree,
that flush of first desire
shy youthfulness afire
though it the briefest
moments sways
as is the blossom making way
for with its dying in the May
comes the sweetest fruit.