Allie Sings Her Father

There was a parade walking by

on a rainy day passing by the chapel’s door

and those who knew could not say - why

the man of faith had lost his roar

 

The photographs were arranged in age lines

telling a story yet, explaining nothing

that made sense nor left signs;

the pastor spoke of keeping faith... or  something

 

The house was never more empty than now

Nor was it ever completely satisfied

For frames hold photos together - somehow

A memoriam says potter’s work unfinished –  died

 

Someone might have noted his eye was lost

To some distant place where ideas were captive

And immense needs were taken at all cost

Weariness divesting will and strength inactive

 

Now as Allie sings her father away

The church people sit alongside the homeless

Paying tribute to the Joe today

That his tender mercies will profess

The Long Year

The long year flowed into the bay
bringing in the lateness of twilight
below the tall white lighthouse;
the seas came to a slow peace
and all the ships stopped to wait
at the harbor’s point for you.

The long year stepped away
from me and there within the twilight
I saw your eyes looking back
and just like that - all our days
ran scattering their love petals
along the path where I will follow you.

The long year slipped away
from us and unto the chilled twilight
where our life together folded,
like morning-glory clasping to close,

for this night shall be cold
and I will dearly miss you so.

The long year passed on this day.
Our journey pausing in the twilight
and until we are one again
I will keep a light glowing,
as I have done always in my heart,
in the lighthouse so to bring you home to me.

A Painting Romance

 

The paint brushes hold long ties

Between flowering children’s art

And the mellowing mater’s heart.

 

The canvasses filled with colors

Found in a magic garden so quaint;

In hues and shades of paint.

 

Creation at the nexus

Where teacher’s hands nourish

And young artists flourish.

 

In a kaleidoscope spectrum

Of paintings telling life’s long romance

Where devotion and love live in dance.

Surrender

Though weary eyes may fear to see

That which is masked and hidden from pose

There is much more to be held in dread

The stares back at thee - in reflection.

 

Flight maybe an impulsive reflection

But pause to look back and wonder:

What are those spectre that task so -

In the cold dead of night when the Pleiades flee;

 

Whose grave shall be served in flee;

Will there be critic’s words to be engraved

Upon the headstone with false earnestness;

Or shall there be songs in manner of glee.

 

As fallen leaves rest upon the ground of imperfection

When death waits to take your final breath

Then with a last grasp - reach out to embrace

His barren posture; surrender to the infinite of thee.  

 

Elegy to a Poet

Insanity flew back unto the synaptic cage

Alighting upon the swinging gate

 

While seeds of yore – envelope into a growing rage...

Fly; fly away before it’s too late.

 

The wind’s turmoil circled into the room

Pivoting along the delicate walls

 

Between sleep’s rest and the mares of doom

Stratifying beyond the window palls.

 

The house of wry reasons and depressions

With transcending levels of shrillness

 

Connect mother’s black impressions

And explain the altar boy’s stillness.

 

Words gather in long lines of prose

Waiting for the proper place and time...

 

To speak of a blue sky and a red rose

Held by the mourners at the death of rhyme.

Blue Aura in Pink

The mystical light reaches the cold irony of wrought

While caressing the natural vulnerability of pink

And thus, highlighting their inclusive link

To the appetites of passion caught

within the bluish auras of cold and hot.

Assassins

Old grievances; ancient dialects; the past...

Squeeze their boney fingers so to grip hold lorn reason;

 

While time eternal, paces short for a miscast

Eye, of an angry failing mind, imbued with treason;

 

Intended for one final act of insanity that will at last,

Bring the whole of the village into a darken season;

 

Where evil beasts, within each clan,

Scream with dithyrambic promise:   “Death - rather than!”   

 

 

 

  

 

Time Exposure

 

The lens stops position

and within a moment

the shutter’s light

transposes the eye

unto permanent angle

of focus; where lines stray

between the edge of tenses

interwoven with tones

of sentimental timeframes;

crystallizing the exposure

in black and white rational form;

that deem to develop conclusions

of either wistful reflections

or willful projections -

each a picture of capture

stilled...

 

to a tattered keepsake

or a tortured heartache.

 

 

 

Constructing Destruction

Water flows until the water falls

Ever emptying its source

Concurrently fulfilling

Its destination

 

Into circles of synchronicity

 

Fire gathers itself slowly

Into a volatile force

Simultaneously consuming

Light and darkness

 

Impulse sparks desire

And alarms survival

In coexistent pendulums

Striking dual intentions

 

Constructing destruction

in synchronicity

 

 

The Art of Depression

The waves come -

they have an endless poise

upon the ear

of crashing, crushing power

and too, a soothing lullaby   

 

always the waves they are coming...

with a gentleness at the dawn

and with threatening cascades

across the long night;

thoughts, irrepressible as the waves

 

breaking the impenetrable silence,

the deep immutable silent truth

that rages on endlessly

within the circles and the rooms

that keep the shells, the precious shells -

 

shells; keepsakes of sentiment

atonements for existence set adrift

scattered along the empty beaches

devoid of corporeal sense ...

shells’ depressions speak of transience

 

deep depressions within the molluskan form

tributes to creation; to existence; to intention

that sound the waves’ eerie constant:

Eros demands the moment -

While Psyche is...     

Trees In Context

Across the canvass that is mother’s landscape -

Witnessed by masses of green trees

That seem the same but different; one cannot escape

That each is described by how science sees:

 

A trunk, branches...  rooted into the ground;

Annual growths come and go thru all the seasons

yet, though time waits not, the tree is still found

waiting, waiting for the eye to behold the poetic reasons

 

For a tree’s connection to the generations,

That come and go - as leaves,

While profoundly remaining at the core of one’s intentions

And, beyond anything one doubts or believes.

 

 

 

 

Art of Reflection

the long thin brushes lay in a wealth

of pigmentary queues

waiting for the silent canvass

to summon open the obverse mind

 

the gaunt three pointed steeled easel

a trichotomous pod with good standing

seeking turns to the light source

so to find lost values

 

the painter at the mirror of denial

his miasmic thoughts

churning like the magma at volcanic depths

 with omnificent fires suppressed and unreflective

 

the muse at the open window suspended

in equipoise between the arrogant artist

and the demure poet of self doubt

summoning the causes and the effects of reflection