Lost Seasons

the seasons of man
hold no real significance
save the final one

Dreams of Poppies

are we but the narcotic dreams
from ancient poppies ground between
the the pestles and the galipots
of medieval alchemists?
and as such dreams may we partake
of conscious pleasures when we wake
to wander freely in the light?
oft denied us by the night
but what is truth, what may we see
to hold as our reality?
Is this existence all it seems
could we be more than fleeting dreams?

Ganymeda

A Plea To Hebe

what secrets held your recipe
that on my lips did taste of rain
new fell upon the freshest fields
not yet scarred by wheel or wain,
each drop did mornings bright extend
across that bounteous springtime
before I did your cup drink dry
oblivious to autumn’s chimes.

the “Hebetempel” Neustrelitz, Germany

Hunter’s Moon

blood soaks the full moon
for now she is in season
and the hunt begins

Sunflowers

sunflowers for miles
golden madness aplenty
I hear Van Gogh scream

The Lake

lakeside in the mist
water’s mirrored mystery
shines a waking dream

Woodland Dream

We wandered in cathedrals green
verdant apses morning haze
architectured nature’s scene
all passion growing in your gaze
and in these woods of early dew
the light of morning stained the trees
with golden halos painting you
to cast my reserve to the breeze

Lakeside

when the light
shines right
upon the morning lake

it seems
my dreams
dance in its rippled wake

and from the water’s edge
I watch their ballet run
and build upon its meaning
for there are dreams to come

Hamburg 7 a.m.

Time : a haiku of simplicity

TIME

give me silver lakes
and golden sunrise dawning
then stop time for me.

Island

my dreams were once an island
but the rains succumbed
to sunlight’s lingering kiss
and then I saw beyond the mist
the dreams were no longer remote
an isthmus had formed
that we could cross together.