Where the landscape ends in bright red fire
I find my thoughts there in stone – petrified
from here it is a wall of unknown desire
though from there those moments are denied.
A conclusion is only a new beginning
a place where the avenues of time left suspending
waiting for that agency to be employed
and leave the other possibilities destroyed.
Who in this position would choose life
when death is the outcome of those choices;
valid protests extinguished for those silenced voices.
Decisions are oft rife with such strife.
Rather let us sit in repose and ponder;
permit those possibilities to endlessly wander.
Category Archives: poetry
The World is Yours
Locked in wood stocks
the world bound and wound up
spinning at the whim of a child’s hand
an expectant finger
waiting for a place to land.
Like spearmen to a charging horse
the blow lands and stops it dead
a digit stalled sets the course.
In that space dreams are made;
a poor facsimile of an immutable thing
quieted by innocence
inquisitiveness
inspiration
imagination
and thus made immutable again.
The world in a child’s mind is but a word
until a place is named
held down
and claimed for their future self
Icarus
Where does it all end?
these places that rise over the mountainside
speak of visions that call from on the other side
but still we are left here to descend.
When we climb those monstrous places
we find terrible things that hunt us down.
Like shook rocks tumbling to the ground,
we are a disaster fleeing from hidden faces.
Have they seen to the world beyond?
Adopted the task to keep us at bay
as if those fruits were too sweet for us
and this is how they respond.
or is it something more to keep us away?
Is the rest of it all disastrous?
The Mountains are Silver with Winter’s Leavings
Black pines the moon weeps
to see them drag that thing screaming
a bundle of noise
given agency in sound
such luxuries are deceiving
Red lights│
blue│
silver strobes of tinsel
The colors slip over the tilled snow
like a long gown dragged over the stairs
they whisper beneath the fugue of fear
those concerned cries calling out for a close ear
for someone who cares.
But the sound is too loud
it bludgeons empathy
Pity the trees that must stay
to witness such horrors
ever protesting in the wind
but unable to look away.
English Channel in Late Spring
A cold wind is blowing – across blue mysteries
where fabled depths are made – with dreadful histories
the fog that hides our shores – honest beyond distance
reminds us there is more – than water’s resistance
Those sunken tragedies – speak to us in the mist
like lost souls rekindled – struggling to persist
to have their stories told – in hidden waves crashing
a song of desperate need – sung with somber splashing
Gulls and hearts hear those words – cry out in harmony
though the mind binds their mouths – and call it larceny
Why should time take those things – we enjoy in life now
and give them to the past – that we have disavowed?
Those far off shores stay hid – behind veils of regret
while we must remain here – on all our sides beset
by the antiquities – of an empire long dead.
From those sober ashes – we always look ahead.
An Offering
It’s warm here
faces illuminated by fire
sharp snaps
conversations are held tightly to the chest
words swelling behind loving arms
offered only to the pyre.
To celebrate in orange, red and blue
you must sacrifice the simple things;
the wood doesn’t know its potential
until put to heat,
only then is it released
unfurled.
In time it may turn to ash and embers
but those embers will keep through the night.
Keep them close until dawn’s light breaks,
to be reminded.
Shopping for a Coffin
It’s the cheapest model
but they don’t know that
the wood is nice and sharp
the finish is matte black
the inside is frilled silk
but empty otherwise.
Once it is filled
no one will see
what there in resides.
All that is left are the
remains on the outside.
Inspiration
Immeasurable
though wanting so badly to be defined
Does definition ever really help a thing
or is it the act of being refined
suddenly less than what it had been all this time?
This page was once porcelain potential
poised for possibilities
now it is scarred
permanently not a million other things
Defined
measured
caged
How many worlds
we turn to ash
to fill a blank page.
The Frightful Things
Shh, be still now, or they’ll hear you,
at first they were just loud and mean
preaching gospel, angry or obscene
we thought they’d pass back into the blue
Shh, be still now, or they’ll hear you.
but they came from older things
long dormant, though well maintained machines
and without challenge their power grew and grew
shh, be still now, or they’ll hear you.
Enfield, NH
The wind is howling
white noise
percussion against the window pains
the sound outside fighting to get in
Could it be the warmth of the fire?
the dead trees split and parched
combust and conspire
to put the whole place to flames
if only they could
transcend the bricks between them.
Some are born to burn
others are made to build
Still others are outside
in the moonlight
battling with the turmoil
Silence can be so loud in an empty house
too afraid to burn.
Grow Gray With Me 