The playful tide

There is a wellness deep inside
like the swelling of an ocean wave
it curdles over in flowing foam
and crashes in devastating rage,
but countenance is non consoling
to such a tyrannical kind of play
it dismisses the song of dashing
in an effortless breath of disdain,
yet the waters don’t go so easily
they thrash upon the brow
pulling and tugging asunder
crushing deep as that of a plow,
but soon the shorelines fall silent
where the sea has come to reseed
and calmness now is all knowing
with gentle gestures of one to take heed.


Quietly, my sweet to lay you down
upon prairies of unclear patterns
tattered stitching held undone
and fabric that folds in shades;
torn at the knees from the run.

The golden light of moments lost
still shutter upon the eyes
where fingers used to clear the cry
and breath of my full kisses;
now lingering only this tender sigh.

Remember all the love and laughter
at the onset of our flame
when rain itself was folly
two souls in wild untame,
and now the waters a shore of tears
that fill up many buckets
where the valley has all but dried up
and silence has killed the ruckus.

In memory of

The drawn out strum of yesteryear
among the trickles of my mind
pervasive gentle wanderings
for the footing left to find,
a hand from each a palm
to feel the roughen strewn
reaching among the blurry words
of a bloody laden plume.

Little nudging verses
that flutter across the page
beautiful rhymes of stifling
or concise and widespread rage,
the breath is seldom known
from the anguish of this pen
each release a darkened womb
of the listless, whom they and them.

Love without knowing

I fell in love this night
with someone I have not seen
someone I have not heard,
and someone I truly do not know.
Yet hear the heart it skips a beat
at the song of her written words
touching me at every verse
as the chorus of chiming birds.
But be still my avid soul
for such things will carry away;
the emotions onto mountain heights
and cries that fathom the sea,
leaving one to splash the shores
on bent and broken knees.


But I do look sweet lover

to the ever sullen woods

in a place with no memory

with why, how, and could,

but to each that I proclaim

the volume turns up short

and every beat is twisted

into some recoiling retort,

reality it would seem

is nothing but the tale

and living is a story

as in the belly of ones whale.


To ponder for even a moment

that consciousness is to ‘I think’

to be aware of this surrounding

in the wonders of a place

to where no human has gleaned afore,

along the waters edge

swimming through each step

and understanding every nothing

as the precious experience

of a lingering future vision.

A window of pools

Its not the tears that make me cry

but the wonder of their springs

that which beats upon their strings

coursing through the mind,

the ever spreading golden rings

that weep within my eyes.


This countenance of singing trickles

that ever flows the stream

a consciousness of rutting waves

gently swaying to the dream,

remembrance from a long ago

that cradle along the creek,

making for the running waters

my heart, my soul, too deep.

The minds hallway

Not every light is illumination

For some its a darker deep

where things are lurking on every whim

and the quill records every creep,

a mind full of static resonation

always swimming in shadowed air

sights and sounds of unseemly

here the author partakes of the rare,

but nothing is free that is gleamed

and the price too is quite steep

for every word that is written

the shadows in return get their reap.