Quiet in the Forests of Night

quiet in the forests of night
watching with white eyes
alone in the darkness
waiting for the one
 
the pond was torn
in ripples that marked the shore
silent as the woods around it—
and the creak of the toads
 
it was day
the wings yielded movement
in the trees that came alive
and left us behind
 
flames once wore on us
every night as we walked home—
alone now they’ve withered
with memories made along the road
 
round and round
on winter grass we’re frozen
in scenes on postcards—

Songs of a New Morning

from the shore
where I can see it all
as it floats away
 
to some other land
where the sun continues to shine
for centuries
 
and treetops
sway in the wind
filling the grass
with wandering pollen
 
          *
 
worn out
like a flag flown
for many years
 
          *
 
alone here
where your lips once
had left a mark
 
          *
 
once
I looked up
at the stones
and there opened a path
 
into the night
lit by torchlight

A Game of Chance

talking to the ghost
who speaks in tongues—
flames indulged
and torn in two
 
          *
 
pulled down
among the darkness
from where I came
and where I’ll go
 
          *
 
a game of chance—
you laugh in my face
as you drown
in the River Styx
 
          *
 
the impact was red—
orange mixed with light
fallen in a cryptic grave
and saved for many lives
 
          *
 
chatter, noise—
the pot boils over
and spills for the rats

Another Day

far at sea
in the violent turn
of the waves and silence—
and out there somewhere
the shores of home
 
     *
 
images
built in mist—
footprints
on the journey home
 
     *
 
winds
and roots torn up—
covered in the dress
of a fallen queen
 
     *
 
one blow
and then I’m down—
fallen to
the lightless depths
between the now
of life and eternity
 
     *
 
one and then
the other—
sinking like Cleopatra
in the endless sea

alone in the bush

alone in the bush
where night is calling
 
within the open sky
as dark as the one I love
 
I wander in the sand
while cutting twigs in a path
 
the bells have echoed
somewhere in the night
 
this midnight soup
has broken up my dreams
 
a strand in circles
a ring that never ends


Postcard to Manhattan

I drifted south to follow the call of birds,
Then hunted around my former haunting grounds
Out west, where all was won with sand-swept words,
I think, once in the red-baked canyon towns.
In the wind somewhere I hear a whistling stone
And stop at the bar along the canyon end;
The moon is always high when drinking alone,
But it’s peaceful now while watching the river bend.

Manhattan Sky

Ten years ago I saw you on a beach
Beneath the empty sky, a silhouette
Of sun and sand, a dream within my reach
Beside a patch of dawn-lit grass still wet.
 
But in the great wide distance lies a dream
Mixed in with siren sounds that echo still,
A vow that’s found in clouds that rise from steam,
Like birds set free who sing beyond a hill.

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