Monday, September 1, 2014

The Voices in the Night

Chihuly's Garden and Glass in Seattle 2014

 I stepped out into the deck
                                 at night
                            the stars were sprinkled
across that black sheet
        above my head                                            
      in familiar patterns,
                                  small lights bright,
       friendly faces beaming down. . .
so close                                                  
                                 I felt I could rearrange them
with a flick of my fingers . . . 
 The crickets were singing                            
      each voice a member of the choir
                      one in particular, an alto,
crying out over and over. . . . "poor Pete,
poor Pete. . . "
          their cheeky voices
                           thick with hope
some little ones          
                    pausing for the cause
like bits of percussion weaving in and out
                                                              with an occasional fanfare. . . 
A breeze raked her cool fingers
                         through the branches of the
trees -                  
                         bright at their tips
                     where they caught the rays
of the moon - 
                                                                   or the streetlamps . . .
       In the distances all around
                                                          were multitudes of voices,
               people laughing,
              music playing on some
                                                       odd radios,
like memories . . .
                                                              my yard echoes
                        the night
with the sounds of the city                        
          like a basin
catching raindrops
                        . . . . . . . or tears
and reminding me
                                                         with a whisper
that I am not
                                         alone. . .
                                                    . . . . no
                       . . . not ever!             

(Written last night)

(I found this little poem tucked away . . . without knowing its history
. . . I can only vaguely remember the feeling . . . the stars have always
amazed me . .. they give me wings, strength and a strange sense of being
one of them . .  immense . .  yet small - )
I gazed with open mouth
at the night sky
the stars are thick and bright . .
there is an endlessness
an eternal peace
in looking though time
trying to find the middle . ..

they told me that being alone in the night
not sleeping
not flying into the dreams of the restful places

will make me tired in the day
and I will fall
down the mountain . ..

but instead I floated away . .  

Friday, May 9, 2014


Be not afraid to fight
that old demon Woe
for though he chases
the birds on wing
he can easily be laid low . . 
           his wounds are deep,
reflecting faintly
of lost stars, 
                    and languid in
muddy waters . . 
               where dreams expire
as drowning swimmers' 
leaden arms refuse
               to fly . . 
yet longing to follow the butterflies of Summer,
watching eyes stung by their
             brilliant dress
       by Autumn storms
thin wings
                  fluttering wearily
though bright colors 
                displaced by the harsh drops 
     of rain
          or tears,
as battle scars. . . .
                                . . ..  your rainbow is too exhausted
                             to climb those busy roads
so you live in the grey,
             . . . dusky world where
                                    your long dark shadows
                      embrace you
and ancient dusty spider webs
                entrap you, wrap you greedily . . 
your beloved
grief rebukes 
                 and paralyses your heart . . .
yet the gate closed to
             your reprieve
                          remains unlocked
and on the side where shadows seem to grow
                          the sun rejoices
                                         waiting for you . . 
turn around .  . 
          and open your eyes . ..  let your heart inhale
step forward and touch the frame of strength . . .

the stolen breezes
kiss my face
with the scent
of new baked bread . . . 
and the small bright flowers
cuddled in the glowing green grass
kiss my toes
with honeyed dew . . .

Sunday, March 9, 2014

HeartBeat . . . Three Poems . . .

Three poems, unrefined . . . yet here they are in their boney state . .  stark and shadowy without the flesh to clothe their skeletons in bright colors . ..  I am uninspired and worn from life . . . but words lie deep in my breast, waiting to explode into flame . . . soon, very soon . . .

a murmuration of birds
a bonding of the seen;
whereas the unseen
lost in oblivion
dance on the mighty tides . . .
the book of Earth
written so long ago . . .where
time is lost behind the veil;
and the echoes of a song

distant in the wild
once heard . . . familiar,
the melody of life
a mark, a score across the vivid nothing . . . yet
a scarlet leaf tumbles to the ground,
an impression of disaster,
the sound of sighing
and regrowth . . .


I would have loved you
if I ever knew you . . .
but you were the petal
in the wind . .
a moment's brush
against my cheek
a pink aroma drifting
into the sunset. . .
like a forlorn ash;
If I had but known
would have reached out my hand
to catch your bitter sting
of foam . . . trembling at the edge
of the tide . . .
the last wave receding
and leaving you behind . . .
to melt away
a mere shadow in the sand . .
I may
have cooled your fevered brow . .
or set a broken bone . ..
or knit together shredded flesh . . .
If only I had known
I would have gathered up your tears . . .
and planted them;
seeds of the tomorrows grown
and grow again . ..
all errors forgiven
all dreams evaporate. . .
midnight terrors . . .
wild horses cannot stand . .
the spot you see against that shapeless cloud
is but a bird
of mystery . . . I will forever ponder
why she could fly so free . . .
when I never knew her . . .
or ever heard her song . ..


My life is like the song of the drum
my heart is a pulse
from the time I swam in those salty seas
and where I became
and I still become
I walk through life
to the beat of that drum
My march is matched
by the thrum of my dreams
the color red
and the shush of the seas
water rushes
and leaves rustle
the wind sighs
and the moon lights
and bodies unite
to an inner cadence . . .
I am not alone in that solid beat . .
as I grow older
and that tempo slows down
I see an end
coming ever so near
and I know that my life
extended somewhere
with the beat of that drum
my spirit I hear
in my heart


Sunday, February 2, 2014


A chain of events
like plastic rings
fragile and explosive
they break
under pressure . . .
a small wayward movement
a drift of the vehicle . . .
waiting for angels . . .
the mind sleeps
as the eyes glaze over 

anxiety lives in the heart
where the churning
of dynamics
shreds the wing
of the butterfly
and caves of solitude
beneath the crumbling
remain unmoved
but what is cherished
in the face of change
is the power of

and who am I
to stand against the tide
to break the wave
to stanch the bleeding of the wind
to drop a fragile egg
    and watch it explode
There is death in
    the flower
as the beserker
      goes astray
black flies on her face
like tears
at the end of the race
no smiles
of joy . . . .

Must of been bleak that day I wrote this . . . sad mood !

Tuesday, January 14, 2014

Thinking . . .

The moon graces
      the ripples of the water                            
with new white lace,
              crisp yet dynamic,
brilliant, and reflective
                                     of the depths of creation . . .
a song floats up                                       
            from the bottom of that
well - - -
    to quench the thirst
                               of my raw cells . . .
I drink deeply of
          cool spring waters              . . .                   
my face feels happy
        while doors
help open
and I 
        can find a way to fly
to the empty house 
            on the hill . . .                
                   shadows filter
through the trees                                          
         like moths fluttering
against the darkness . . .
                               I am the star walker and
                                                              I touch these glints of light
             as if they were stepping stones
guiding me to the places where
and love
           wash the souls of the damned
and the song of eternity
                                                             through the throbbing heart
                     of that which is;
             and that which was
                                                        gleams like a frozen dream 
       in the empty house
              on the hill .. . .
where memories, like dusty furniture,
                              populate the stillness
   and the stars glisten
                             with laughing eyes 
through un-curtained windows . .. .