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

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

Wind

wind…

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

Fritillaries

a pair of Fritillaries

float drift and glide

dancing on air

weaving interlaced designs

around one another 

in arcs

of becoming

ascending

on an invisible strand

like lovers consummating

in a spiral 

of forgetting

who they are

Let's Take The Long Way Back

let’s take the long way back

beneath shaded oak and aromatic pine

athwart the weathered split-rail fence

bent into the warp and woof of nature’s wiles

past the old place

with its long front porch

and massive beams holding memories

of laughter and dancing feet

in moonlit rooms resonating with sounds of

family and friends fading now

as we roll past the giant willow

bending shade into the shape of long afternoons

drawing water from the well

with the fresh coppery taste

so light and cool on a summer afternoon

we glide into the blue-amber glow

of the western penumbra spread long and wide

with faint lights glimmering in the valley below

melding light and shadow into night

as we drift on wheels crunching gravel

like popcorn between our teeth

the hour is right in its time

and all that might have been

trailed behind and lost the way

back to what we remember

of days that are no more

Words

words/letters

symbols on a string

obsessions of genius

possession of kings

complicated tools

manipulated by fools

everyday/every way

you and I 

all we can say

words

see them

hear them

read them 

write them

say them 

mean them

use them

abuse them

echoes sound softly

around in your head

modestly/proudly

once they are said

find them

say them

write them

play them

amuse them

abuse them

fuse them

use them

words/letters

symbols on a string

obsession of genius

possession of kings

complicated tools

manipulated by fools

echoes sound

alive in your head

once they are thought

and then they are said

find them

say them

write them

play them

use them

abuse them

amuse them

believe them

everyday every way

you and I

all we can say

…words….

Beads

beads

on leaf

blossom petal

and bloom

beads 

laced round 

the neck

of my lady love

beads in eyes

on thighs

lips and 

tip of nose

beads 

glistening on skin

running down the middle

of your back

beads

nestled in clefts

where passion came

and was spent

beads

on the cusp

of a tear

hovering on a sigh

beads gathered on

tear-stained window

casement and

onto floor

beads 

that remember

all that was 

and is no more

Her Flaxen Hair

water runs full free and fast

flowing down cliffs 

through meadow and marsh

carrying effluent on its back

time rules the hour

wheels turn winds blow

over fields of grain 

swaying like waves

rolling with the tide

and her flaxen hair streamed

like silk ribbons flowing

golden and fair as she rode

in the balmy summer air

she rode across meadows

stretched long and wide

like a dark messenger

on a mission to hell

she paused beside a soft sandy mound

that breathed a sigh 

and a message ushered forth

from deep within its depths

only she understood

then turned mounted her ride

and rode into the wind with abandon

her flaxen hair streaming 

like fine silk ribbons trailing behind

she never looked back

at what was left behind

she rode and her flamen hair

flowed full and free 

on the soft balmy breeze

riding by her side

The Silent Audience

you stammer and stumble
reading words that describe
azure skies drifting clouds
and an angled sun
tilted over a brilliant summer afternoon
while tree swallows
circle loop dip and dive
in dizzying arrays
and a little boy
chases his ball
around the yard
while you sit
amidst pastel blooms
singing arias to the golden sphere
suspended over an amber penumbra
aglow with the remains of the day
as the blind audience
smiles and nods
in silent agreement
to all they hear
but you know
light does not enter
the dark void
behind their eyes

The Road

if the road is willing
and the way
not too hard
we may meet
at the end
of the beginning
and start the journey again

Bud

out of a thatch
of brown furze
a stem arises
straight firm
erect and true
throbbing
seeking the caress
of a coddling sun
nestled in the cradle
of a new day

Baseball

they made it round
so it would roll
light so it could be thrown
seamed to grip
so it wouldn't slip
but skip curve dip
dive dance on air
soaring in high looping arcs
brushing clear azure blue
landing outside the fence

it was made for play
and bring people together
to share the ambience
of a balmy summer day
sitting on a bench
with nothing to do
but watch others
play the game
and wish you could
do it too

If You Go There

if you go there
tell me if the
cover is on the well
the barn is still there
and the tree stands
next to the house
by the dusty road
down the hill
where he used to get air
under his wings
and soar around the meadow
in the glider he built
setting it down easy
get out and laugh
that he had defied gravity
for a few moments
suspended on bone dry air
everybody thought he was crazy
but wouldn't tell him
so now he rests
wearing the grin
of a man who had
the last laugh

You Are To Me

you are to me
what yesterday was to today
before tomorrow has a name

you move through me
without touching
being without speaking
as silence is to sone
in words sung
from the one
who makes me sing

April

still
bright bluest
silver day

your promise
radiates all
premise

to be
unlike another
filling

this day
with possibility
though

it be
April not
May

Presence

each day

he follows her

about her rounds

head bowed

humble as a monk

a silhouette

silent as a shadow

one step behind

probing nook and cranny

where the small things hide

silent presence

loyal companion and guide

always ready when summoned

to look for what couldn’t be found

and nod to a question

without an answer

no need to look

or listen for a sound

for he is always

one step behind

Money

you want it

but can’t get it

search but can’t find it

if you have it

somebody’ll grab it

if you owe it

you’ll have to pay

if you want to play

while ‘they’ have their say

with the lay of the game

and you’re one card shy

of making the big strike

never enough to go round

or satiate the taste

of a hungry hound

for more than he can chew

or swallow in one bite

have your say

make your play

go about your day

perhaps a way

will be found

before you make

your last sound