Monday, June 18, 2018

The Sword of Damocles

time —
the sword of Damocles
with the inscription
“produce or die” 
etched on the silver blade
hangs by a frayed thread
over my head

time has a face
numbers for eyes and
hands pointing to what is
out of what was

what will I be doing
when the line snaps
and it’s too late 
to recapitulate loss or gain

time owns the dice
the same dots 
don’t come up twice
and a clue to what you seek
can’t be found when
the cubes spin around on
a chipped corner 

we have what was given
to use as we choose
win or lose
nothing more or less
than what remains 
after the table is closed
and the transient moment 

contains all it can hold

Thursday, August 17, 2017

If This Is The Last Song

because this may be
the last time
I sing this song
sincerely and reverently
in this place
that knows my voice
and follows my stride
through braided seasons
seemingly without end

I sing
as the cardinal
opens the day
radiant in golden hue

I sing for you
as the song dances on air
filling the intervals between
sound and silence

I sing 
because this time 
shall be unlike any other
echoing in the place

memory reserves as its own


from where have you come
where do you go
what do you carry
whom do you know
circling round corner
nestling in crevice and seam
scattering seeds over meadow
gathering fragrance from blossom and bloom
swaying beneath your stride
ever restless and impatient
running full circle wide
pausing to gather your wits

before driving ever on

When You Leave

when you leave
I will smile

as you turn
away and go

while these words
sketch the outline

of where you were

Le Sacre

time held me
full fresh lush
and green in
golden vibrant spring

songs rang to
a silent pulse
throbbing beneath my feet
from a presence
sensed unseen

a heady fragrance
rides on air
from blooms diverse
in shape and hue

the pungent loam
of opened soil
yields a generous bounty
of fruit from
the fertile earth

let us be one
among all that moves
playing to the music
of the intimate dance

of time and light

To Those Who Ask

to those who ask
I have little less
than nothing to spare

tell me

if it is enough


a pair of Fritillaries
float drift and glide
dancing on air
weaving interlaced designs
around one another 
in arcs
of becoming
on an invisible strand
like lovers consummating
in a spiral 
of forgetting

who they are