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The eyes of the infant alter
With shifting forms of color and light
Listening to the tinkle of the chime

Never does his attention falter
Transfixed by the beauty so bright
On his face; a look of happiness sublime

Simple shapes of twirling plastic
Suspended by a bit of string
Tied fast to a rotating music box

The effect borders on fantastic
Wonderful to this tiny being
In his cotton blanket and knitted socks

Beauteous treasure underrated
For just the few dollars it cost
Hours of amazement entertained

Innocence lies fascinated
In dreams of rapture lost
Perhaps that is poetry explained

On Windy Bay

I dreamed last night of Windy Bay
When we were there one April day
The sunlight bleaching out your curls
A different sun, a different world
The ocean seemed to call your name
On every rock where water came
The breaking brine would crash and hiss
We shared a wet and salty kiss
Our blanket wrapped around us both
Held our bodies warm and close
We sipped coffee by the fire
And watched the morning star retire
Let’s go tomorrow or today
Back to our love on Windy Bay

Leaves and Last Goodbyes

The chill of late autumn mimics the chill of my soul.
Since you left, my heart is broken.
There’s no place left to go.

I walked down to the lake today, sat on the bank and cried.
The dogwood that you planted there
Is withered black and dry.

Only a few sparse leaves are clinging, like memories in my heart.
As I hung my head and sat there
I could feel the teardrops start.

Hopeless and helpless, I held my knees, trying to get a grip.
Talking to God and begging please
As useless prayers spilled from my lips

I told Him I was angry because He didn’t keep you alive.
He didn’t answer why the cancer
Took you at only thirty- five

I have to go home to our children now and tell them mommy is gone
I wish I could stay here somehow
I feel so lost and all alone

A gentle wind blew from the lake and caught a burnt black sail
And a dogwood leaf filled with grief
Trembled silent and fell

I remember you lying in the hospital bed saying I had to carry on
I love our children but I’m bewildered...as to how
Now that my love and life are gone

The hour is getting later and darker; endless tendrils of tomorrow
Like the dogwood’s tiny fingers...lingering
Clawing the hem of heaven in sorrow

Teardrop

Silent pear-shaped world of water;
Ocean of pain trapped in a drop
Sliding slow as frozen glaciers
Down the cheek to trickle stop

Saline bitter; sometimes sweet
Always salty as the sea
Where emotions mix and meet
From the hearts of you and me

Soothing balm to pain and fear
Sadness caught or rapture’s joy
All contained within the sphere
Encapsulated by the envoy

Messenger of pride and pain
From young child to dying old
They are drops of our heart rain
From the windows of our soul

Blood is life so oft is said
It goes unchallenged when we hear it
Clearer than the crimson red
Is the bearer of the spirit

Offering this wisdom now
For every heart and soul to hear
Sacred as the wedding vow
Is the shedding of a tear

The Troubadour

Man With The Blue Guitar...Pablo Picasso

The Troubadour

Across the bronze wound notes of my being
A calloused thumb strums the music of my soul
Perhaps the song is sad today remembering
The happy sounds of youth as I grow old

All the worn down grooves along the frets
And hollow canoes ground into the neck
Where blues were played and life was stretched
Now but silent visions which I might reflect

And the shining pearls I cast before swine
Mark the chords of every absent song
I played for the dance of every painted mime
Knowing that they had no words to sing along

Play me a tune like wine by candlelight;
Like a book beside a crackling fire in winter
But if not romantic; make it gay and bright
I would be the revelry to cheer the happy sinner

I’m an old guitar but I still stay in tune
To the hearts that love me for my song
I would play the stars and the harvest moon
In autumn when the nights grow cold and long

I’ve been aware without reverberation
There is trembling tremolo at my center
Where the pick was placed in adoration
Like the bookmark by that fire in winter

Perhaps it marks where the last song played
And we might pick up the music yet again
My life is but a song, no matter what is said
Pray, do not let the music sadly end

Sun Drenched Love

So long ago I remember when
The smell of sunshine on her skin
Drove me mad; intoxicating
Any plan we had of waiting
Damp and tangled auburn curls
Brushed away the worried world
The rise and fall of eager hips
Sea salt kisses; tender lips
Smooth brown skin drenched in sweat
Forbidden sins with no regret
Such, the reckless ways of youth
Memories enhance the truth
As summer did those many times
Sundresses hid bikini lines
Dinner at her parent’s house
Silent as proverbial mouse
Tried to be cool but wasn’t able
She winked at me across the table
To be excused I had to beg
Her bare foot rubbed against my leg
Sitting there between mom and dad
How bold the love my lover had!
Still I love to remember then
The smell of sunshine on her skin

Long Distance

Those long distances;
whether years or miles;
tears or smiles,
that separate what we feel
from what we think;
that urge us to drown the real
in drink
or find some new nepenthe
in the amnesia of pills; the dark and lengthy
painkilling process that kills the infection;
the affection,
by draining the abscess
or the excess
of our hearts
or parts
of our minds that refuse to let go
is in and of itself; painfully slow.
The only solace to our sorrow is
in remembering
what has not been...and hoping…
looking forward to tomorrow.
The distance can be crossed
and all is not lost
unless we choose to lose it
and would we choose it
thus
if our pain; our joy, our lust
were just as much a part of us
as our clear logic instead of magic?
How tragic!
We can’t hold on to youth
or truth
or beauty
because of responsibility to duty
but shall we be just as cynical;
cold and clinical,
in our amputations
of relations
that once meant something to us?
So it costs
a few more cents
to call;
we should have the good sense
to make the effort after all.
And in those suffering
pauses of silent instances
we can learn to shorten by practice
those long distances.
Perhaps we can’t hold
on to youth
or find any universal truth;
beauty fades
like plans we’ve made;
the best laid schemes
of mice and men have failed
and flailed;
drowning while jumping
from a sinking ship;
struggling to swim to the distant
shores of heaven.
How will we cross the vast
and infamous chasm
from earth below to heaven above?
There is no bridge but one.
Poets and philosophers have agreed
in need
to call it love.

Sailing

Upon the sea; wind fills her sails;
Swollen belly of starving ghost
And from the west she lifts her veil
Pulled by breath of Zephyrus

Ocean cradles her wooden child
Gently rocking; her song unravels
Gulls screech high above the beach
Along the coast she swiftly travels

A sailor’s hand; hard-muscled, lean
Calloused from the yard ropes pulled
Steers the lonely Barkentine
Where the gentle wind has lulled

Let her wander where she will
Across oceans vast and blue
Keep her from the doldrums still
Sweet the breeze that blows so true

Great sailfish will spear the air
As dolphins school about her
And jellyfish without a care
Will dance upon the water

She will brave nor’easter’s blast
Pitch and woo the mighty waves
Until she finds her port at last
With trembling cargo she has saved

The Big Chill

I watched The Big Chill the night of the freeze
The temperature dipped below twelve degrees
Halos on my window; hot coffee in hand
Reflections on snow; ribbons cross the land

Barren trees stretch up like crow’s feet
Clawing the sky for vacant summer heat
A yellow coin of moon slipped the grey
Flipping a nightlight switch; imitating day

Dust devil clouds; dancing ice and snow
Whirl and twirl in dervish fandango
The winds cry bitter; sad mournful notes
Wailing, frozen wasteland ghosts