From Inland Wind
One morn, I heard the beating of each wing
and thought of geese, for that is all I knew.
Against the azure of the sky they flew
slow to appear and slowly vanishing.
To soar such flight, in joyfulness I'd sing
catching the surging wind drafts as they blew.
in flight above the sea, my rendez-vous
with ocean and with sky, abandoning
all thoughts of earth, unchained and free to fly
with or against the wind, it matters not.
How could an earthbound mortal such as I
claim kinship with such sweet compatriot?
My own heart beats within each feathered breast
my winged soul shall never let me rest.
The sand and the beach
the shells and the stars
the salt-spray, the sharp-grassed dunes
are my memories
tucked away in the recesses
of my mind
to draw upon whenever I need.
In the sludge of winter,
the freeze, the ice,
the wind and snow.
From darkness shall I
take my heart, and steep it
in the flavor of this summer.
From Roses & Thorns
Mr. Darcy, on Observing Elizabeth Bennet
Well, they are fine eyes, fine indeed, I say,
full of fire and shining in the glow
of embers smouldering at the close of day,
I shall remember long, and this I know
fine eyes shall haunt me all my momehts now,
that haughty look, and mouth set firm and straight.
And to her curtsey, make my sweeping bow
to leave at once and close the garden gate.
Should I but see her one more time, I pledge
to take her in my arms and end this feud.
She's brought me to the rim, the very edge
of wild madness and desire, my mood
has changed from lofty pride and prejudice
to teeter at the brink, love's precipice.
Miss Mary longs to give advice,
and such is her intention.
At each and every chance she gets
she offers condescension.
To stem the tide of malice,
says Mary with an air,
with sisterly devotion
we must alway take great care.
A loss of any virtue
is simply irretrievable.
And sister Lydia's disgrace
is surely unbelievable.
We cannot be too guarded
against the other sex,
the world is full of scoundrels
and often does perplex
those who are too innocent.
It certainly is scary,
we need to pour into each other's...
Indeed, yes, thank you, Mary!
Rock on rock, an icon piled high
payment not of gold, but red as blood
an endless flow of homage, see the flood
of people in their silence passing by.
White radiant sun, its brilliance does belie
the utter blackness of men's souls, where good
is cast upon the waters, thick with mud
by acts of purest evil, and the cry
of those who died, an echo on the wind
an echo down the endless, empty years;
a pain so deep we cannot comprehend
such savagery to which our eyes were blind.
Memory stirs the cauldron of our fears;
lest we forget, the stones heaped end on end.
What years are left to me I do not know
the minutes of my life, the seconds pass
I try to slow them down but oh, alas!
They glide, relentless, in an endless flow.
So move the days and months, which never slow
the subtle trickle of my years through glass
the thud of every heartbeat, to surpass
even the grains of sand a wind may blow.
What magic potion might a conjurer use
to cast a spell upon the waning years?
Perhaps a wand which, with its mystic ruse
might wave, and turn aside our age-old fears.
Sweep back the seas against all natural law
bringing us, newly-birthed, to virgin shore.
Let me write your life
as an artist paints a portrait,
using words of fire,
colors from the pallet
of my heart.
Shall I choose to work with oil,
selecting boldly what mirrors
the brilliance of a rainbow -
splashes of red, purple and gold
vibrant and alive
dynamic and swirling?
Or are you more suited
to the muted tones of watercolor,
soft gentle hues
producing harmony of design -
tranquil to the eyes?
Bold or muted?
Oil or watercolor?
Perhaps you are a blend of both.
Therefore, shall I temper
my fiery script
with softness and love.
The greatest thing you ever did
was to like me
when I was often unlikeable.
Too many people turn away
from unpleasant and annoying
I shone in your liking
shedding some nuisance
along the way
like pounds of fat.
People say I am thinner now.
What do you think?
For what is there beyond the farthest reach
of farthest star, when we can see no more?
When we must stand upon a silent beach
an edge of time and space, a lonely shore?
When there are no more oceans left to sail,
no depths to sound, no universe to sing
when we've explored it all, to what avail?
Our hearts will hunger still for wandering.
So did Ulysses long ago proclaim
that man must never yield but ever strive
to set the stars to burning with his flame,
to ride the winds of chance and so survive.
Thus, like Ulysses on a Grecian throne,
we set our sights on galaxies unknown.
Mindful, ever mindful how she looks
coloring her hair, once a month at least.
She conjures images of heroines from books
and dreams old myths, the ritual wedding feast.
Guinevere she might have been. Perhaps
Diana bathing naked in a stream,
or Cleopatra, weaving countless traps
to snare her Antony in willful scheme.
But each deceit, like layers of a cloth
unravels to reveal the hidden truth.
Burning the mirror as flame burns a moth
the incandescent fire of her youth.
It matters not. She stares and with faint smile
remembers ancient Egypt and the Nile.
You watched my face and always knew my mind
my heart an open book that you could read.
Clearly printed there for you to find
all the desperate pages of my need.
You read my soul, but I read yours as well,
both avid readers, you and I perused
the phrases of our hearts, so parallel
decoding friendship, rich with love infused.
And on the preface of my heart, you wrote
inscriptions of sweet joy which I could hold
re-reading through the lonely years each quote
to keep me warm against the bitter cold.
Your words inscribed upon my soul forever
this legacy of love, your heart's endeavor.