Tatting A Fugue

(To Sarah)

the string ties itself
into a knot
pulling the motif
of the subject
into an exposition
of the design
looping over, under itself
gradually revealing
an answer
in the turn of the
emerging shape
down, around, through itself
yielding a counter-subject
in the transposition
of the gesture
turning, curling, circling
tying itself into an
episode of intersecting lines
feeding into the
second exposition
a cyclical variation
of mirrored gestures
in inversion
reinforcing each strand
in a tightly-wrought design
slowly fulfilling its matrix
unfolding in the fingers
before your eyes

The Word Garden

we entered the
garden where each
bud and bloom
was tendered and
formed by the
careful hand of
a master unable
to part with
his beloved child

now they gather
worn faded and
torn in a shabby
shed on a
sagging shelf
leaning one against
other faded blooms
withering in a
dustbin of antiquity

At Seventy-Three

the day arrives
and evolves out of
the contours
of its own accord

what can be done
will be done

what can't
will have to wait

what rushes by
will learn to rest

Summer Nights

hot summer nights
restless passions stole
innocence from prying
eyes probing shadows
bearing witness to
minor crimes in
young hearts’ quest
to burst vessels
running with hot lava
coursing through seams
stretched to bursting
straining against elementary
strictures of lofty
rectitude and high
virtue beyond reality’s
touch simmering in
heat of desire’s
lust to break
the chain of
consequence at any
cost when reason
grapples in the
iron claw of
will and desire
set in their
way not to
be swayed in
the narrow spasm
allotted the hour
to ride free
open and wild
at least one
time sparing nothing
at all cost
gathering what may
fall into the
fold of spent innocence

This Too Is Not Enough

we are
what we left
behind

live to be
not to
become

yet this too
is not
enough

Heritage

this is not the place
that bore me

nor the land
I came to know

through toil and strife
where deceit unfurls

its banner high and proud
while the code that

united all under noble rubric
is torn scattered and blown

by the wiles of an unruly wind
while those who came

and made their place
among the others

are crushed under the
heel of makeshift cause

by those who took
more than they gave

setting chaos adrift
on a sea of lies

Craft

it isn’t post
lintel sash or beam
but the foundation
upon which more
than one depend

transparent as light
intangible as air
born of impulse
out of necessity
not of need

but life whole
and complete fully
contained within itself