Musings: An Anthology Of Verse 2w4qk

Musings An Anthology of Verse

F . M . B O N E V E N T O

Copyright © 2014 F. M. Bonevento.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Archway Publishing 1663 Liberty Drive Bloomington, IN 47403 www.archwaypublishing.com 1-(888)-242-5904

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only. Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4808-1150-8 (sc) ISBN: 978-1-4808-1148-5 (hc) ISBN: 978-1-4808-1149-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014918645

Archway Publishing rev. date: 10/31/2014

Contents

Preface

Historical Allusions

The Quest

Roland’s Grave

Avalon

The Tale of Mary Ann

The Keep

The Sack of Illium

The Wizard

The Court

The Queen

The Battle

The Tower

Arthur’s Tale

The Palmer and The Rider

The Youth and The Maiden

William Wallace

The Tourney

The Knight’s Oath

The Shards of El Cid

Faith’s Voice

The Reading

Polars

The Resurrection

Bartimeous

An Epitaph

Taps

The Man in the Desert

The Garden age

Writing in The Sand

The Lepers

A Prayer

Morning Prayers

A Country Chapel

An Abbey

The Cross

The Beggar

A Prayer

An Inscription

Renew

Victory

An Epitaph

The Final Day

Death

My Angel

Eternity I Saw

The Bells

A Man of God

The Father’s Mansions

Be Not Afraid

The Song of Francis

Mercy

The Heroic

The Gift

Strangers

Nature’s Songs

A Forest Glade

The Clouds

The Puddle

A Tumbling Brook

A Brook

An Autumn Day

Autumn’s End

Twilight

Raindrops

The First Snowfall

Texas Wild Flowers

A Winter Journey

Night

A Gray Day

Twilight’s Flight

Night Sky

A Thunder Storm at Night

Reflections in a Pond

The City in Rain

The Seawall

A Ray of Sunlight

The Pond’s Looking Glass

Beyond A Bend

The Old Stone Wall

The Cave

The Dawn

A Bower

Sea Shore

A City Blizzard

An Oak

Stars

The Moon

The Anthem of the Sun

Fireflies

Old Mister Oak

A Winter Night

A Walk in the Rain

Reflections

The Crossroads of My Mind

Thoughts Alone

A Red Volume

Time

A Path Less Traveled

The Hexagon

Silent Music

Cycles

Sleep

A Face in the Glass

A Cry

Time

An Illusion

Visions in My Mind’s Eye

Memories

Where

Shadows

Promises

Bits of Glass

Conversations

Nothing Changes

Quiet Time

Where Is Tomorrow?

Common Denominator

Snow Starting

Lament Ye Well

My Sisters

Beloved

Infinity

Into Long Silence

Songs

The Spirit

Valuation

Remnants

The Wraith

A Stranger

The Rag Man

The Player

What is a Son?

Ozamunda

A Candle

Stonehenge

The Peddler

The Memories of Christmas

Grandma’s Christmas Tree

A Fifties’ Rangers Game

Parts

The Subway at Night

The Helmsman

Thoughts Alone

Memories

Roads

Echoes of Silence

Grand Ma

Christmas Time

Mary Ann at Christmas

Empty Heads

The Machines

For Mary Ann on Mother’s Day

Thoughts

Crows

Brooklyn Days

Dreams

Dreams

Nighttime Flights

Where is this?

Conversations

Dreams

Daydreams

Dreams Long Gone

Dream Time

What I Dream

The Place Where Dreams Are Made

Images

The Phantom

Xanadu

Dream’s Revelations

Wishes

Recalling Yesterday

Recalling

Recalling Her

Recalling

Roads Traversed

Snippets

Yesterday’s Tears

Moments

Yesterdays Make Me Cry

Yesterday’s Sounds

Sweet Recall

Snow with Her

Emotions

Angst

Anger

Fear

Tranquility

Sadness

Truest Love

Grief

Hope

Loneliness

Reverence

Disappointment

Anticipation

Satisfaction

Inspiration

Courage

Pride

Epilogue

For my Mary Ann

Your love is the inspiration of all here written. Come dearest, and sit awhile, let me tell thee of all I have seen, beyond the com of our walls.

Preface

Musings is my personal journey set in verse. It is my hope that it will take the reader across time and space, people, and settings. It deals with chivalry, battles, nature, and the sacred; with the rational and the mystical; with the mythic and the mundane; with the mind, the heart, and the realms of ideas and emotions, viewed as through a kaleidoscope of shifting colors and tints. It aims to cast its subjects in introspective perspectives. Its palette is pensive and sometimes ionate, inviting the reader to explore with the author on a journey of the mind.

The history of this work dates from the summer of 1980 when I wrote my first poem. Prior to that time, I had never written anything of this type. Suddenly, without prelude or consideration, verse seemed to arise at unexpected times and places. I found myself jotting down lines, often without pause or reflection.

This collection is titled Musings because it seemed to me that its existence is wholly based on the musings of my mind, as thoughts drifted and darted into spaces sometimes known and often unexpected.

Many times I had the feeling that the subjects and words were not my own, but rather just mine to record, as best I could. Sometimes I found myself recalling specific instances and images from my life, making a conscious effort to capture them. To me, these latter works were never as fluid or personally satisfying as those that just seemed to spring from my mind in completed form.

The topics and structure of this work was not preplanned; it all seemingly piled up of its own accord. Gathered in their current form, after years of accumulating

dust in my desk drawers, I undertook the task of arranging them into some semblance of order, hoping they might bring enjoyment to others.

Here for your inspection and enjoyment is Musings.

F.M. Bonevento January 2008

Historical Allusions

A selection of poems about a time of chivalry, honor, quests, battles, legends, romantic notions, kings, queens, heroic figures, and a dash of magic.

Impressions of times, places, people, and ideas ed away. Distant, and yet still close to my heart and mind. Pray excuse these humble offerings.

The Quest

I

Amid a cloud of swirling dust, a charger picks his way While on his back there sits a knight, bedecked in mail of gray. His lance askew, his shield held low, he makes a forlorn sight. While peering west, he travels on, amid the failing light. Neither maiden’s love nor blazing hearth will comfort him this night. So pressing on he keeps to horse till stars have filled his sight.

II

He stops at last, to make his camp beneath a sagging oak. Breaking fast, he dines alone, on fare of cheese and loaf. From on his lap, a skin of wine he grasps to slake his thirst. A soothing sip, to chase the dust, lodged deep within his throat.

III

The moon’s pale rays a halo casts, along the lonely road. A silver thread amid the dark, a vigil light till dawn. Now softly said, the nightly prayer that binds him to this quest: “Before your feet, oh gentle Lord, I offer shield and lance. I humbly beg to have the strength, to seek your Saving Cup. Grant me the faith to keep my quest, although the road be long. Guide my steps within your sight, until my journey ends. Ignore my faults, for mercy’s sake, granting pardon for my sins. Call me home, to heaven’s gate, where I will meet my fate.”

IV

The dawn’s bright light calls forth the day, the sleeper now awakes. His horse he tends, his armor borne, he faces this new day. A winding road now calls him forth, to seek the sacred cup. He never knows how far he’ll ride, or what awaits his fate. A vow once made, must urge him on, upon the endless road.

Roland’s Grave

I

The Rider speaks:

Can you tell me, worthy sir, who sleeps in yonder grave? Pray tell me it’s not Roland that tasted death so soon.

II

The Plowman speaks:

I fear that here you’ve found him, the object of your quest. Of him I know but little, though legend here has said He was a worthy gallant, who served his liegeman well. Now there he lies so quiet, he molders in his grave. His glory long has vanished, and no challenge can he take.

III

The Rider speaks:

Alas, how cruel our life is, he’s stolen from our sight. Thus we lose our champion, whose virtues shined so bright. Still sadder are the people who dwell within this dell, For they know not of this hero, who championed them so well. Nor of his noble virtues can any here now tell.

IV

The Plowman speaks:

Sir, you’re clearly troubled, that much is plain to see. You seek the crown of glory, which knights of old did seek. Yet can you truly tell me, what mattered all their pain? What gained your noble worthy, whom death at last did claim? He wears no crown of glory, as any fool can see. Instead, like any wastrel, he rots ‘neath yonder tree. So much is made of battles and the fame they bring to some, But this I tell thee truly, such deeds were falsely done.

V

The Rider speaks:

Now at last I ken thee, oh man of this new age. Your heed not honor’s calling, nor care for her crusades. You think to win life’s favors by keeping close to home. You’ll only sip of blandness, for in safety nothing’s gained.

Avalon

Where, pray tell, is Avalon? How does one find the way? Does it hide amid the mists, within the Lady’s lake? Can one sail to Avalon to be where Arthur dwells? Is it there that Merlin dwells, to serve his king so well?

If one comes to Avalon Are the days still clear and fair? Are the trees spun still in gold and green, amid the fairy dells? Will I sleep in Avalon, bound fast in timeless spells? To dream and see most wondrous sights, Ever free from earthbound cares.

Alas, I seek old Avalon. I’ve seen no bastions fair, I’ve scaled no lofty mountains Though I’ve journeyed everywhere. I’ve never felt its magic, nor slept within its spell. Still I’ll seek old Avalon, a place that’s ever fair.

I fear it lies in legend, afar from mortal grasp.

The Tale of Mary Ann

I

In a far and distant kingdom, beyond the southern sea, There dwelled a lovely princess whose tale I’ll tell to thee. How I came to know it ‘tis something I’ll now tell. I’ll share it with ye gladly, so attend and listen well.

II

‘Twas in the height of summer, in a very distant year, That I first heard her story, and I wondered at its truth. I sought out several wise men and the king’s own counselors three. I asked them of the story, of the maiden beyond the sea. Each told the self-same story, each spoke of beauty fair: A maiden most chaste and charming, with silken, raven hair. Though many knew the legend, few details could they tell, Save only of her beauty, and the tales her suitors tell.

III

I vowed to see this lady, whose virtues tales did tell, So I gathered up some garments and oiled my armor well. I rode upon my charger, the trusty Don Miguel. Thus I took to saddle, to see where she might dwell.

IV

Thence, upon a morrow, I met with palmers three. They cried to me for mercy, for they had but naught, you see. I knew that I must aid them, for it was a noble cause. I stopped and shared my victuals, along this lonely road. They blessed me for my mercy and left me with a prayer. They bade me to have courage and seek the maiden fair. “She’s waiting in her garden, a distance of some leagues. To hear the words you’ll tell her; press on, with all God’s speed.” I rode off in the evening; my heart was filled with song. I felt I soon would see her, the light of all my hope.

V

For many leagues I traveled, on roads I knew not well. To each I met, I queried, and used these self-same words: “Pray, can you tell me, truly, where dwells a princess fair, Whom many seek to marry, but none she weds, they tell. Her hair is black as raven, her face is wondrous fair, Her voice is sweet and charming; she sits in garden walls. Her name is Mary Anna, or Mary Ann the Fair. Does she live within your region? Is it near that she may dwell?” All and each did answer that they knew the story well. They bid me ride to northward; ‘tis there, they said, she dwelled.

VI

‘Twas in the days of autumn, upon a morning air, That riding in the sunshine I heard a voice most fair. A peal of sliver laughter, a voice that sweetly rang. I strained to hear the music, which filled my heart with song. There beyond the sunshine, there stood a garden wall. Its sides were clad in ivy; it’s there that she must dwell.

I vaulted from the saddle to scale that garden wall. Thence I stood upon it and beheld a maiden there. She saw me not, I warrant, but her I did see well. Her form was cast in beauty, with great presence, I could tell. I feared to speak or linger, I dared not say a word Lest I spoil the silver magic her soothing voice did tell. I vowed, “Upon the morrow, to speak to her I’ll dare.” I’ll pray to find the courage, to broach some heartfelt words.

VII

I scarce could wait the morrow; I slept not well at all. At morn, I sought the garden and spent some hours there. At last, she made an entrance, sitting there alone. I chanced to sing a ballad, to ply her with a song. “Oh princess of the legend, thou fairest Mary Ann, Pray listen to my ballad, and judge not form alone. I’ve journeyed far to seek thee, from long beyond thy walls, To behold thy radiant beauty and pledge to thee my troth. Look now upon thy suitor, to see I love thee well. Know, I pledge my honor, and pray let me descend.”

She looked to see her suitor, who scaled her garden wall. Swiftly in a moment, she smiled at his small song. “Oh sir, you didst me startle, with your most charming song. Come close that I might see thee, come, let me spy thy form.”

I moved from out the shadows, she saw me standing there. She bid me to approach her and so, gravely, I advanced. Our eyes met in that instant. ‘Twas like a summer storm. We knew upon that instant, that soon our hearts would .

VIII

We married in the springtime, a bride beyond compare. Her story a mere shadow of the beauty I beheld. Mere words can do no justice of the joy my spirit held. She gave me more than beauty, for her soul was fair as well.

IX

I’ve loved her since the moment when first I heard her voice. In truth, there was great merit in the telling of her worth. So recall what I have told thee; I repeat that very claim: Her beauty is no legend, my lovely Mary Ann.

Epilog

To each who read these poor lines, excuse their humble form. Seek to see the beauty that lies hidden ‘neath this verse. In love I penned these stanzas, to tell a tale of joy. Though my craft meets not the measure, pray enjoy what here I wrote.

The Keep

I

Beyond the soaring forest, amid a lake of blue, A keep of white is standing, waiting there for you. Its battlements are lofty, with ramparts hued from stone; With gates of oaken timbers, locked fast in iron and stone. Stately halls await thee, draped in banners of blazing hues, With leaden panes of amber, polished clear so light streams through.

II

On the east there sits a solar, to warm your winter days. To the west, there stands a chapel, a place where we will pray. To the north, there is an orchard, to shade our summer’s day.

III

So come, my dearest Lady, to my keep within the lake.

Accept my pledge of honor; your love I’ll not forsake. Come be mine forever; be my Lady of the Lake.

The Sack of Illium

Before the walls of Illium, they struggled in the sand To sack the halls of Priam, and capture Helen’s hand. The army of Achaia, with Achilles in command, Vanquished all the Trojans, with Hector in their van. Despite the fearsome battles, the walls of stone still stood, Till wily old Odysseus fashioned a horse made out of wood. The army of Achaia slyly crept away, to tempt the greedy Trojans to steal this horse that day. Into the mighty city they pulled the steed of wood, and swarms of happy Trojans praised the idol where it stood. Yet on the morrow’s dawning, while the city lay asleep, The Greeks, within the idol, signaled those upon the beach. Thus, within an instant, the mighty gates swung wide; The army of Achaia quickly swarmed inside. The yelling and the screaming filled the winding, burning streets, While the army of invasion carried booty bound in bloody, silken sheets. The king and all his cohorts were slaughtered where they stood, As chain-bound waifs and women trudged sadly to waiting ships. Thus, within that instant, the pride of Troy was smote, and the army of Achaia

gladly took to boat. Now I give this lesson, offered thusly by the sage: “A gift that’s brought with malice is the bringer of a plague.”

The Wizard

A pentacle of power lies chalked upon the floor. At its points are burning tapers, yellow light they flicker forth. Within these arcane markings stands a wizard in robes of ebon hue. His face is deep in shadows, ‘neath a cap that’s half-askew. He intones a verse of power, in a language most arcane. Smoke begins to rise here, as thunder shakes the panes. An odor, oh so rancid, spews forth across the floor. Lo, a summoned figure calls out in rasping chords: “Who summons Shastarfara, the Source of Evil’s Curse? Come near, oh foolish mortal. Stand forth, I’d see thy form.” The wizard within his markings dared not to leave their course. He moved his lips so slowly as he muttered sotto voiced. The figure that he summoned was compelled to mortal will. Loathing cloaked the secrets, which he alone kept still. The man within the circle felt his arcane powers grow. Ri with vigor, he made the very air to glow. The figure of the demon vanished swiftly in a blast

As the power of this sending swept his presence to the past. The wizard, smiling sly, picked up his ancient quill, Penning down his stolen wisdom in a room become dead-still.

The Court

The ancient king sits on his throne and sees his subject’s woes. Before his eyes, and in his hall, he hears the dirge pour forth. All raise their eyes, stretch forth their hands, his justice to secure. Without a pause they plead their cause; the halt, the sick, the old. The king sees, in their eyes, the burning need and pain. He bends his head and gravely prays, God’s wisdom to obtain. Lo, he speaks, and doth proclaim the matters to be done. To each his due, to some their wish, his justice thus is made. Some turn with joy, their hopes fulfilled, a boon within their grasp, While others leave without a hope, their petitions made at last. The hours flow, the king grows weak, and still the people come. He turns at last, looks away, and prays his task be done. All heed his wish and steal away amid the failing light. Night soon falls with crushing black; justice waits another morn.

The Queen

In flowing gown, she sits upon a throne of hammered gold. Her raven locks caress her brow and frame a crown of old. Her shining eyes command my heart and give me pause to think That what she wants and what she seeks become the nation’s fate. An iral on the ocean sea, A captain on the plains, A general in the battle’s midst All heed her sovereign claims. With beauty and her boundless wit, she sits at court each day. Using guile and clever words, she holds her foes at bay. Many are the foreign kings, the princes out of Spain, Who sallied forth to seek her heart and failed to win their gain. They leave her gaze with heavy hearts, despairing of their fate. Though I, I serve her faithfully, and love her from afar, I cannot dare to speak the words that lie deep within my heart. So may she reign eternally, my raven Queen of Hearts: The treasure of the kingdom, a beauty set apart.

The Battle

I

Arm to arm the pike men wheel, forming up a fierce array, While at their backs are mounted knights; sun glints from helms of gray. All is set to the fray, as the sun calls forth the morn. On this field, for honor’s sake are called the noble born. Spilling blood to win their cause, caring not for foe or land, Many knelt, seeking grace, asking God to bless their arms. Hoping now to honor gain, an accolade to win, While others beg for mercy’s sake, seeking safety from the test. Each to each, souls are ed, fear tugging at their breasts. How silent is the moment, none speak lest the spell be broke, While cross the mead an army stands to and fell their foes.

II

A horn moans out, calling men to meet at last in arms,

To sally forth, despite their doubts, to win the field this day. Now must fears be cast aside, as battle soon is ed, Taunting shouts come bursting forth, from out these fearsome lines. In swift response, a hail of bolts comes grimly pelting down. Many fall whilst in their place, slain by hands they never spied, As cross these downs of rolling green, death has swiftly flown.

III

In the van, the armies clash, as swords on shields resound. A grinding din of splitting bones, screams of pain abound. In the glow of golden morn, many meet a grisly fate, Stricken down by axe and sword, streaked and stained, they gain not glory, those whom none will ever mourn. Amid the swirl and battle press, knights in armor hold their sway; Cutting swaths, they cleave about, whirling reapers in the hay. Felling men and stoving helms, rending limbs and hands. Through the day, the battle flows, while the issue stays in doubt. Till one who leads is circled round and cruelly laid about. His fallen form the vanguard views; its will to fight is done. So, at last, they struggle not, begging mercy from their foes.

IV

In evening’s cloak, many lay upon these rolling downs; The scarlet earth, stained red by blood, mid flowers trodden down. Not a blade now stands tall, upon a meadow once so verdant fair. Till at last, in fading light, a song of victory swells. It seems not fit, for those who died will never hear its strains. Oh victory won, where is thy worth, when weighted against such cost? Oh valor bright, where lies the prize, so soiled by death and loss?

The Tower

I

Hidden by the forest and sheltered from the sun, There stands a lofty tower, an abode ‘twas wrought for one; Encircled by stonewall, a cloister from the world. There lives within these confines a lonely, silent girl. Attended by an abbot, who brings her daily fare, He visits for a moment and leads the lass in prayer. Why she is a prisoner, ‘twas never fairly spoke; ‘Tis said her tyrant father had done this evil stroke. As vengeance on her mother, his lovely sainted queen, He stole her tiny daughter, an act that was obscene. The deed struck oh so meanly was more than she could bear; Thus the sainted woman took her life in deep despair.

II

‘Twas once upon a morning when in this silent wood,

There rode a handsome stranger, who wandered where he would. He stood his horse in silence within this sea of green. He thought he heard an angel singing sweetly, so it seemed. He paused for several moments to hear this wondrous song. As it wafted to his earshot, from a distance not so long, He sought to find the singer, and at length he found the wall. He vaulted in an instant, from his saddle standing tall. He gazed upon the tower, transfixed there by her song. Thus within this instant, his life found a different course.

III

With a mighty burst of ion, he stormed the tower’s door. He split the jamb to splinters, as the door slammed to the floor. He swiftly climbed the staircase, coming closer to the sound, Thus he saw the beauty, who voiced that silken song. Her eyes upon him fastened, he could not look away. And love, in all its power, seized their hearts that very day.

IV

The spell that bound the lady to dwell within this tor ‘Twas broke and cast asunder, as thunder shook the floor. Thus the tower’s maiden was free to be a queen, While her tyrant of a father was slain by true love’s gleam.

Arthur’s Tale

I

Amid the misty mountains, within a crystal cave, A druid, known as Merlin, made sorcery his slave. With amethyst and ivory, with totems made from bone, He learned the dragon’s magic, and its power was his own. With a vision so far seeing, he looked beyond the past; He saw Pendragon’s scion and knew his life-long task. He poured forth magic powers to cast a spell arcane To charm the fairest lady, the lovely queen Egraine. Egraine brought forth a babe of magic, a hale and comely child. She gave his name as Arthur; upon him beauty smiled.

II

To the court of old King Uther Merlin slyly came. To the child, now called Arthur, his tutor he became. He taught the lad his letters, arts and music, too.

He gave to him great wisdom, instilling all he knew. When the lad was ready, he disclosed a thing most strange. A source of arcane power, held fast within a lake. With daring and real courage, Arthur plunged within the lake. He seized the sword of power, the source of evil’s bane; A sword, the stuff of legend, to wield in honor’s name. Excalibur the magic won fame in Arthur’s name.

III

Arthur forged a court of honor, Camelot the Fair. There amid his palace, he placed a table round. Seats for men of valor, knights pledged to honor bound. Righting wrongs with deepest courage, till justice filled the land.

IV

Alas, within this haven, there dwelled an evil dame. Using guile and raven beauty she entrapped the ancient sage. A spell she cast on Merlin, she stole his powers great; And with her ill-gained magic, into Arthur’s dreams she came.

To lull him with her magic, to fill her sinful need. Thus a child named Mordred was by evil’s spell conceived.

V

Twisted by his mother, Mordred’s heart soon filled with rage. He sought to slay his father, to wrest his wrongful claim. A battle was the setting to end dark Mordred’s quest. Thus it fell to Arthur, to bring to Mordred death. Sorely wounded in his struggle, Arthur bled at death’s dark door. He lay upon his captain a last and awful chore: “Cast forth my sword of magic; Fling it far in yonder lake. Return to her that forged it, this magic singing blade.”

VI

So did the sword thus vanish, sunken deep within that lake. Never more to sing in battle, never more to victory taste. None knows where Arthur lies now, no tomb is there to see. ‘Tis said he lies in Avalon; with the druids does he sleep

To wake again to glory, honor’s cause again to seek.

The Palmer and The Rider

Once upon a moment, in an age now long ago. A palmer on a journey walked softly and quite slow. He came upon a crossroad, and there he chose to wait Perchance to meet some traveler, whose advice he hoped to take. Before the mid of morning, a man bestride a horse Spied the waiting palmer, and pausing there, they talked.

The Rider speaks: “Good morning, holy palmer; God’s grace upon you be.”

The Palmer speaks: “Well met, most noble rider; my blessings rest on thee.”

The Rider speaks: “Pray tell me, goodly father, where does thy journey go? What holy sites art thou seeking? What blessed things would’st thou know? Come now, kindly pilgrim, thou need not have a care.

For I am bound by honor, giving aid to those who fare.”

The palmer paused a moment, and carefully did speak.

The Palmer Speaks: “Thank you, good sir rider; I’ll answer thee in truth. I am seeking Avalon, a place I pray ye know, And reaching its location, cross its misty lake I’ll go. I’ll entreat the druid masters to regard me with some worth, In hopes they might instruct me in the secrets of the earth. I would seek to ponder the wisdom of this age, Thus to slake the yearnings my inner spirit craves.” On hearing the location the palmer sought to reach, The rider nodded sadly and presently did speak.

The Rider Speaks: “Alas, I cannot tell thee where Avalon may be. In vain, I too have journeyed, and failed it yet to see. Like thee, I seek to go there, in hopes that I could know Is Arthur still there living, and does chivalry still glow? You may me with continue, though in truth, I too am lost.

I’d consider it a kindness if together we might walk.”

The palmer smiled on hearing the goodly man’s retort. He responded with comion, addressing then this thought:

The Palmer Speaks: “How strange is God’s creation, God’s grace upon us both. It will be my honor, if together shall we walk. Together shall we seek it, though no doubt the road be long. Together we’ll share comfort; let us start while still it’s morn.”

II

Some say, indeed, they found it; though the journey proved quite long; And reaching there, they dwell still, for they cannot ere be gone. Others tell the story that they seek it still today. As spirits ever searching, they journey all their days.

III

I do not know their ending; in humility, I pray.

That in truth they now have come there, and are dwelling there this day, Sharing truth and wisdom, growing ever in all ways, At peace in boundless wisdom, free to come or stay. But if they have not come there and seek it still today, I beg that God’s great mercy will speed them on their way: Ending their long journey, rewarding their long search, Come at last to Avalon, fair Avalon of gold.

The Youth and The Maiden

I

Once within a bower, beneath a shapely tree, A youth and a fair maiden spoke in chaste repartee. The words they spoke were proper, spoken with some grace; Like couplets in a sonnet, they flowed with metered pace.

II

“My dearest Mary Ann, I beg thy leave to say: In God’s great truth I’m smitten, and bound to thee I’d stay. I pray thou might consider and see in me some worth, To accept my pledge to love thee, till time no more has scope. In thee I see such beauty and a pure and shining soul, Scarcely can I see thee and keep my heart controlled. I pray thee please consider my hopes to win thy heart; I die to hear thy answer, I beg to win thy heart.”

III

The maiden heard his entreaty and considered well his words. She hoped that she might love him; in truth, she did not know. She chose a thoughtful answer, and presently she spoke:

“Sir, thy words seem reckless; We scarce have had the time to build in us such ion that each to each must bind. I cannot think it wisdom to rush without good pause; Pray give me leave to ponder, and do thyself withdraw.”

IV

He turned to make his exit, but alas he could not go. He paused and thus entreated with these, his final words:

“I cannot dare gainsay thee, thy logic hath no flaw. I beg thee but consider what ed my lips in hope. I beg of thee to ponder and trust that thou will learn That daring all to win thee, I give to thee my soul.

I urge thee reconsider, for surely will thou see That I am thine completely, and ever shall I be.”

V

The maiden heard his answer, and in her soul began to know That he must truly love her, and with sincerity had spoke. Time lost all its measures, as seconds ebbed and flowed. Her inner self saw ion, her heart felt love’s sweet glow. She knew that she would love him, though the risks might prove quite grave. She would listen to her heart’s voice and trust him in his word.

VI

“Sir, thy words are tender, they strike my inner core. I confess that I may love thee; come, let us see if this be so.”

Thus began their union, suring what each had hoped. Love came to them completely and ed them soul to soul. The youth became her husband, the maiden his dearest wife; Ever were they lovers, two as one for life.

William Wallace

I

Upon the moor they gathered, anxious horse and man, To see the host assembled that came to rape their land. Every soul here gathered, to wage unbridled war, To challenge those who plunder, sacking hearth and home. Who scatter kin like windblown chaff, before the winter’s blast.

II

Not a beast was stirring, Nor breeze disturbed the trees. Within each breast fear lurking: Shall we fall and fail our liege? Slain as sheep at slaughter, in the grip of Satan’s band. Blinded by dank, dense mist that gathers round yon trees.

III

Then, as in an instant, the veil of fog’s deep cloak was rent. There they stood like statues, with shields and axes bent. Misty breath ascending, like smoke upon the air, Each side poised upon the moment, not a soul did break his line. They heard a mighty summons; William Wallace called the clans:

IV

“Arise, ye sons of Scotland, take heed and your arms. Strike down these sons of Satan, and drive them from our lands. Have heart, my bonnie laddies, none here will taste disgrace. Press on, press on, my hearties, God’s grace now guides our fate. Infuse your hearts with courage, for angels lead our van. Fight now to win your freedom: free Scotland, kin, and land.”

All roared aloud like lions. All raged like frenzied men. All rushed the foe with valor, to crush the Englishmen.

V

Yet in the cup of victory, a sour taste remained. Thus fueled by spite and cunning, the foe would strike again. Using guile, and never valor, they bribed the Scot’s strong hand. Thus they seized the Wallace, the leader of the clans.

VI

They tortured William’s body, They tried to rend his soul. Yet, true to his great courage, he never lost his hope. His body torn and bleeding, yet vision still remained, He died still seeking freedom, his death no victory gained.

VII

Now time has victory faded, she claimed these mortal men. Yet still we feel their courage, these folk of Scotland’s glens. Filled with awe and wonder, we dream how turned events, That one like William Wallace could claim the hearts of men. To give to those who heard him the will to fight and win,

To cast their fears behind them and earn what few men win.

The Tourney

I

Upon a field of new-mown grass, the lists now empty stand. A tournament will be starting ‘neath pennants o’er these stands. Soon the crowd will gather ‘round this open field. Trumpets sound the martial calling for knights to joust today.

II

Two by two the knights come, with lances of wrought wood, To strike a blow, unhorse a foe, and dash him to the ground. Broken bones, and wounded pride, and even mortal pain Are bravely risked by knights today, as they enter in these lists. To vie to win the princely prize of champion of this day.

III

The trumpets blare and hoof beats pound, lance on shield resounds

Till a knight should lose his seat, to tumble to the ground. The winner soon res the lists to face another foe, To try again to best a knight and cast him from his horse. Round on round the tourney winds, as victors vanquish foes Till at last, there stands but one, who alone has kept to horse.

IV

A fanfare blares amid the cheers, an accolade is gained. Upon his lance, the winner ties the scarf his lady wore. On his helm, the badge he wears of champions of the day. So at length the tourney’s done, as soon the feast begins. And in parade, king and knights and ladies all retire from the field.

V

How ing strange it seems to me that a tourney brings a feast. For where’s the joy in broken bones, and bruises, and scars, for all to see abound? Still, it’s true that men take pride in besting other men. So it was in olden days, these jousts of knightly men.

The Knight’s Oath

Before thy cross I swear, my God, to keep my holy pledge, To render aid, without a care, to the least that thou hast made; To right great wrongs and punish those who prey upon thy weak; To fight for those who serve thy law, lest evil have its way. Chaste and pure I keep my heart, so I might see thy face. From summer winds and dazzling stars, give solace for my soul. Let sword, shield, and trusty lance be ready for thy work. Never let me shirk, my Lord, when I shall hear your voice. If I should fall before my foes, I shall thee not forsake. Forever shall I be thy knight, despite my earthly fate. Rendered here, my solemn oath, my honor thus is pledged; A knight I am to God avowed, my sovereign liege and lord.

The Shards of El Cid

I

In a niche in caverns dark, beneath the sunlit earth, Shards of steel are lying there in sorrowful repose. How few they seem lying there, a shadow of the past; The mighty blade shines no more beneath its pall of rust.

II

Once a sword of mighty lines, the weapon of a giant, Lies shattered now, a pile of shards, belies its former self. Like El Cid, who wielded it, they both shall fade away, For none that lives can forge anew this weapon of the past. Fit it seems that man and sword should fail and fade to dust, For man and sword were wrought from dust and to dust they must return. So when you gaze upon these shards, you cannot stop a tear, For great were both sword and man whose like we no more see.

III

Gone to dust are knights and blades, now all is rust and bones. None arises to heed the call to inspire mortal men. Shards and bones, dust and dirt, lie sinking in the earth. What now shines to give men hope, as legends fall to dust?

Faith’s Voice

Verses inspired by personal meditations about people and scenes in the New Testament that resonated with me. Prayers and reflections on spiritual aspects of life, death, and visits to places of prayer.

Themes from faith offering a bit of heartfelt hope.

The Reading

Standing in the shadows, intent in silent prayer, He listened to the readers, and slowly he prepares. He comes forth to read the scriptures and picking up the scrolls, He reads to them the age, which speaks the prophet’s words. He forms the words with power, with the force of one who knows; He does not pause or stumble or speak to them by rote. He pauses for a moment, after putting down the scrolls; Speaking with conviction, he utters then these words: “Here within this moment, you heard the prophet’s words. I say to all here gathered, you heard what was foretold. I announce a time of mercy, the preaching of God’s Word: Liberty for captives, freedom for all souls.” His brothers are astonished by what they had just heard. They feared the wrath of heaven, they yelled to drown his words. He offered no reder, and walking through their midst, Silently he es, like a whisper in the mist.

Polars

I

In the Alpha lies Omega. From the darkness springs the light. In the lack, we find the plenty. In death, we find true life. In the tug of oppositions, the yarn of life is spun. In polar propositions are truth and lies, made one. Logic fails to find its focus. It reveals no lucid line. Truth becomes as falsehood; nothing stands the test of time. Black to white inclines now. Lost is reason’s voice! Vanity is virtue; inconsistencies, no true choice!

II

Seeking faith, forsaking reason,

I becalm my troubled mind. Limits sought in lonely solace, I walk among the blind. Wisdom dead and long vanished, ever in a steep decline.

III

Not with rational reduction will the truths of life be found. Faith alone yields some answers; intuition gives faint signs. I pray to find some reasons; with faith, I seek the light. Trusting God in his mercy will help me find my life.

The Resurrection

I

In the depths of silent darkness, He lies upon a ledge. Wound in sheets and covered over, His body lies in state. His visage now lies hidden; no more we meet his gaze. No spirit dwells within him; now death has bested grace.

II

But see, there is a glimmer, a warming light does glow. It takes an azure aspect, it seems to form and grow; Building strength within the darkness, an orb of blazing light.

III

In a blaze of dazzling brilliance, the Master does arise. He stands amid the crimson, his wrappings fall aside. From death he has arisen, to shed hell’s cloying grasp.

He stands, and in an instant, transfigured is his face. He moves his hand so slightly, as thunder sounds its voice. The very walls now shudder, the door stone cast aside.

IV

Free from his entombment, He walks upon the earth. He walks again among us, in the glory of the dawn. He lives again this morning, through searing pain reborn. No more to dwell in silence, death’s pall now cast aside. In faith, we share his glory, rejoicing with our Lord. Death has now been vanquished. Hope of heaven is restored.

Bartimeous

I

Sitting by the roadside, in a cloak so soiled and stained, Huddled amid the beggars, the halt, the sick, and the lame, Imprisoned in the darkness, till he heard that wondrous claim, The Messiah is among us, and Jesus is his name.

II

Standing by the wayside, many people swiftly came. All walked so quickly past him, not a person spoke his name. Praying with great ion, he feared his hopes were vain, To gain the gift of vision, his redemption to obtain. The crowd begins to stir now as in their midst he came; The teacher and his pupils, walking slowly in the rain.

III

Then in that instant a surge of faith Bartimeous gained. Ri, he shouted, “Jesus, Master, heal my pain!” Many tried to stop him, “Keep thy silence!,” they proclaimed. Yet he shouted all the louder, till Bartimeous he called by name.

IV

“Bartimeous, I have heard thee; what do you wish to gain?” “Master, that I might see thee, and my sight might be regained.” The master saw in Bartimeous the light of faith remained. He spoke in gentle kindness and thusly did proclaim: “Bartimeous, thy faith has saved thee; by thy faith, is sight regained.” Like a flash of blazing lightning, the clouds replaced the void. Bartimeous beheld the Master’s visage; tears of joy came streaming forth.

V

The Lamb of God moved slowly, walking down that muddy road, Carting off a heavy burden, nearly crushed by sin’s great load. Bartimeous, slowly rising, put his cloak within his sack.

Struggling on that roadway, shouting praises at the Master’s back. “Master, I will follow, though unworthy I may be. Praising God forever, ever faithful shall I be.”

VI

Jesus surely heard him, despite the pouring rain. Surely then he heard him, despite his endless pain. No more of Bartimeous I know, but what I’ve wrote. Still, I know he followed truly till in heaven, Bartimeous awoke.

An Epitaph

I

Do not look to find me lying in this plot. Though my body is confined here, my spirit lingers not. Like the haze upon the meadow that the warm sun calls away, My soul has scaled the sunlight to the golden day. Enfolded in the cloud tops, to eternity I’ll soar; Free at last to wander, I’ll climb to heaven’s door. Look, you may, to see me, where the sunset tints the sky, And in the gentle raindrops that caress the thirsting earth. No more you see my visage, nor grasp my hand in yours, Yet ever am I near you; I’ll listen when you call.

II

So when you greet the sunrise, or marvel at the sky, I am here, beloved, to share your heartfelt sighs. Have no care about me, nor shed not many tears,

For love has freed my spirit to bind itself to thee. In love we are united, forever are we one. So wait, my dearest sweetheart, for at length I’ll surely come, To wake you from your slumber, to walk with you again.

Taps

Twilight comes, Shadows fall, Soon the dusk steals day into night. Rest you well, oh sleeping ones; Nighttime comes. Hear the horn Softly played. How it fades, like the now-failing light. Rest in peace, oh sleeping ones; Nighttime comes.

See the flag Slowly fall, Taken down, folded up, in this rite. It shall fly yet again. Rest you well.

The Man in the Desert

I

Fasting in the desert, amid the broiling rocks, Silence in the vastness, searing winds so scorching hot. Visions and mirages, dancing wildly on the pans, Illusions ever fleeting, nothing rigid seems to stand. Not a drop of cooling water to pour out upon his hands.

II

No one to commune with, except the blazing sky. Voices in his mind speak, like a cloud of buzzing flies. What they seek to whisper is known to him alone. In the searing heat of morning, his soul begins to groan. Wrapped in constant praying, he flees from wearying pain.

III

Then out of silent shadows, he hears a sibilant voice. Sweetly it accosts him, in silken liquid notes: “The world and all its glories, I offer these to thee. Come then, to adore me, bow down upon thy knees.”

IV

The man within the desert feels power in his soul; Filled with mighty ion, commanding is his voice: “Be gone, thou tarnished angel, Get thee gone unto thy depths. Stop trying to ensnare me, with thy foul and lying breath. ‘Tis written in the scriptures: God alone shall ye adore. To him alone give homage; live not by bread alone.” Within that very moment, the demon fled the rocks. The man remained in silence, to pray upon this spot.

The Garden age

I

A stab of fear cuts through him as he kneels in silent prayer. Alone here in this garden, he faces deep despair. How bitter is this mission and the path he soon must tread: To give his life for others, to pull the sting of death. He pleads before the Father to spare him from this cup. He fears he cannot drain it, that he’ll fail to measure up.

II

In his blinding torment, he shows the gift of faith. In his faith he seeks transformation; peace lights his sacred face. He calls unto His Father and speaks this heartfelt prayer: “If this must be my portion, then I’ll drain this cup most grave. Father, not as I would have it, but as you would have it done. I will do thy bidding, though it brings me searing pain. You are my loving Father; I am your faithful son.”

III

Within that instant, peace suffused his soul. The chains of doubt were loosened, and surely he arose. He found his friends in slumber, lying sleeping in the rocks. Moved with great comion, he called them from their spots. “Rise up, oh sleeping children, though night is still so deep. Awake and see the danger that awaits me, while you sleep. Meek and full of mercy, I will grasp this dreaded cup; Thus I’ll win your freedom, with the ransom of my blood.”

IV

He left the lonely garden, bound fast in cruel, tight ropes. To walk among his captors, fully calm and filled with hope. Never from that moment did angels leave his side. The angels gave him comfort, as on Calvary he died.

Writing in The Sand

I

In the dusty courtyard, he taught the people there. They came from far to hear him, to flee from their despair. Suddenly some shouting, echoed from the walls As the soldiers dragged a woman, sobbing greatly, to the wall. The leaders of the people then proposed to him a snare: “Can you tell us, Rabbi, what punishment is fair? Caught in frank adultery, by her own two lips confessed. Come, give to us your wisdom; humbly we request.”

II

The Teacher made no answer, but bending low, he wrote some letters in the dust there, though he uttered not a word. Again, the people’s leaders shouted, oh so very loud, All could hear their voices: “Come, most learned teacher, the law on this is clear.

She must be condemned now, and lose her life right here.” The Teacher still was stooping, still scribbling in the sand, Then he made this answer, to this hypocrite-filled band.

III

“You say the law is simple, and she must be condemned. Let he who has no sin here be first her life to end.” He continued with his writing, still tracing in the sand. One by one, the shouters left him, they shyly crept away. The Teacher stopped his writing, then lifting up his gaze, He saw the woman standing, alone and quite afraid.

IV

“Woman, has none condemned you? Has no one raised his hand? Then neither do I spurn you, instead hear God’s command. Make an earnest effort to stay away from sin; Accept the Father’s mercy, and depart upon thy way.”

V

He taught this simple lesson to all who gathered there: “Judge not upon another, lest you yourself be judged.” What he had there written, upon that dusty floor, Was never duly noted, and slowly blew away.

The Lepers

Huddled at the crossroads, they made a baleful band. Wrapped in rags of orange, with bells held in their hands. None would dare approach them, no village was their home. They roamed amid the wastelands, no roof to call their own. Then they met a stranger; He walked into their midst. He spoke to them with kindness, no sneer upon his lips. He offered them comion in measure to their faith: He said that God could cleanse them, if their hearts held truest faith. He bowed his head in praying, asking his Father for a sign. The band was cleansed from sorrow, their visages refined. “Tell no one who has cleansed you,” the stranger did exhort, “Go unto the temple, to obey Mosaic Law.” The stranger took the highway, to continue on his way. The band would not forget him, for he cleansed their souls that day.

A Prayer

I am here to listen, speak to me, my child. Let me have your burdens, come sit with me a while. Share with me your secrets; tell me all your fears. Let me feel your sorrows, I will heal your ills. Tell me that you love me; you know I love you, too. We can talk together, as we share some quiet time. You don’t have to speak much, for I can hear your heart. Ever will I listen, for we are not apart. You are in my spirit, as you live within your life. Never am I distant if you simply heed your heart. Knock and you may enter. Ask and I will give. Seek and you shall find it, for I want you to live. Come, let’s walk together, let us spend this little while. Never be a stranger, talk with me, my child.

Morning Prayers

Hear the bells softy tolling, they are ringing in the morn, As the sisters from their vigil gather quickly for the song. In the cool and saintly quiet, all come to sing of praise, As the priest in snow-white vestments stands before the candles’ blaze. The sounds of ancient, Latin floats lightly on the air. The Mother and her sisters sing sweetly morning prayers. To the altar rail they file up, all clad in robes of white; They kneel in genuflection, to receive the bread of life. In the fields, the gentle murmur of the chanting greets our ears. We pause in short reflection, our sprits thus renewed.

A Country Chapel

I

In the distance, on a hillside, sits a country church of yore. How the sunlight paints its steeple; its sight makes sprits soar. It’s an old and weathered building of plain and aging stone; Sleeping in its shadows is a graveyard filled with bones. In this quiet darkened abbey, tapers burn before the saints.

II

In the quiet, folks are kneeling, praying earnestly with strength. To this altar one can walk up, and a cross of wood hangs there. The Lamb of God is waiting to receive each whispered prayer.

III

In this plain and ancient building, many come to mass to pray, As for ages they have gathered, to share God’s life each day.

Oh ancient, crumbling chapel, you are a path to heaven’s door. There is beauty in your aspects, which gives my spirit joy.

An Abbey

I

In the silence of the abbey, in its dark and shadowed hall, I sit in contemplation, reaching out for days of yore. I discern the ancient letters, graven gothic on each tomb; All lie in endless slumber, not a person mourns their doom.

II

History becoming—not those who share our faith— Artifacts of study; hardly souls who knew this place. I arise, moved by comion, to visit silent tombs; To plead for each a pardon and the grace of peaceful sleep.

III

Light fails and comes the evening. Soon darkness rules this place.

I depart, now filled with sadness, from an abbey shorn of grace.

The Cross

I

A rough-hewn form, stark and grim, stands in a shadowed niche. Here I stand, with bended head, before this sign of pain. Broken thence upon this tree, he spent his blameless self To win for all the gift of life by drinking bitter death, Sinking down to soundless depths, to arise again to life.

II

With timid heart, I grasp the wood that time has rendered smooth. It stills the quaking that wracks my soul; I feel its gentle touch. Affirmation mine to have, soul touched by boundless love. Pain and guilt lose their grip; tranquility abides. Once I stood, a soul alone; I now am ed to him. Justified, I raise my head to seek the newfound light. The shadowed niche is waiting there, to comfort me again.

The Beggar

I

I chanced to see a beggar, seated by a gate. He seemed to plead for mercy, though no sounds his lips did make. His prospect was unsightly, his garments soiled and stained. His demeanor was not haughty, only scorn was his to claim. I thought I would by him, to ignore his soundless plea. Then I had inkling that such was not to be.

II

I gazed upon his visage. I sought his down trod face. In that briefest moment, he froze me in my place. His eyes so brown and gentle, they seemed so filled with pain, Yet they held a depth of kindness, which seemed so free of shame. In that briefest moment, some kindness filled my soul. I found such great acceptance in his glance so swiftly met.

I reached into my pocket, to leave a few coins there, But when I sought to drop them, he’d vanished into air.

III

Who was this nameless beggar? Why did we chance to meet? Where did he fly so swiftly and vanish at my feet? I’ve pondered well these questions and considered them with care. Perhaps he had a message, addressed alone to me. Though he was a simple beggar, a man of little worth. He had the gift of riches, for he gave me selfless hope. Reminding me with kindness what the Master truly said: “What you did unto my brothers, that you did unto me.”

A Prayer

I

In a quiet cloistered garden, I sit alone and pray. To God I offer penance, beg him for his grace. Although I cannot see him nor behold his mighty form, I feel that he is near me, as I meditate alone.

II

How calming are the moments that enfold me as I pray. Tranquil are the decades my fingers now retrace— The mysteries of the Rosary are there for us to pray. In quiet contemplation, we seek the path to grace. We cannot understand them, by intellect alone. Instead, we find, the answers by faith’s true light are shown.

III

The joy of God’s intention. The wonder of his birth. The agony of his dying. The blackness of the earth. The glory of his rising to the Father high above. The nearness of his mercy. The power of his love.

IV

I offer him these mysteries, to thank him for His love, To ask him for renewal, to give my spirit hope, To help me with my burden, to carry well my yoke, To beg to find acceptance, to do his holy work, To pray for those in darkness, assured that I am heard. Thus, I pray in silence; I utter not a single word.

An Inscription

In a quite churchyard, I tread carefully among the stones. In my soul I feel a shiver, as the winds make gray trees groan. Not a person there beside me, as alone I am this day. Still I feel no malice near me as silently I pray. I bend to read some carving on aged, wind-scored stone. Its inscription still is poignant, and it’s phrased into a poem: “Here sleeps our dear Rebecca, a lovely child of ten. Her soul has flown to heaven, to return to God again. Ever we’ll adore her; how we miss her radiant smile. So us now in praying, we shall see our child again.” These words retained great feeling, though carved there years ago. Still they stirred me with comion as my tears began to flow. I bent to place a flower upon this leaning stone, To arise to seek some solace as I turned to journey home.

Renew

All a man may ever learn and all he may surmise Begins at one’s inception and ends with one’s demise. In the spark of bright beginnings are sewed the embers’ glow, And the silent press of hours helps mortal minds to know The joy of being human contains some trace of pain. Thus we bear our sorrows, as life unwinds its skein. Indeed, it’s in our natures to rail against our fate. That robs us of our lovers, alone at night to wait. But are such feelings natural? A path we blindly trace? Perhaps the better measure is to rise above our fate. To find in each transition the seeds of some faint hope, To feel in every parting a memory sweet to hold, To let each dream expire so another fills its place, This seems to be more graceful than cursing life’s constraints. To find in quiet moments the source of inner grace, To rise and seize the moment, To accept what life has sent,

To end each old endeavor, to renew my life again.

Victory

I

A visage wan and wrinkled, a haunting graceful smile, Eyes of softened amber, with a gleam that still beguiles. Such are the faded glories of the lady once I knew— A shadow, indeed a whisper, of that beauty of her youth. Time, you’re such a villain, to visit life with ruin, To steal the bloom of beauty, to drag us to the tomb.

II

Though the years are ever wearing and scar God’s artful work, They cannot mar the spirit, which endures within our souls. Inside our faded temples, a light is shining there; The image of God’s purpose burns brightly through our cares. Though age may seem to triumph, and death turns life to dust, In our spirit lives the essence of God’s most fervent love.

III

So time and death, you are vanquished, in a manner some may see. For in faith we find renewal and the grace that sets us free. Thus victory is given to those who live by faith— For the soul has ageless beauty, and death mars not its grace.

An Epitaph

Graven in this granite are words that paint some thoughts. Take heed, who stoop to read them; pray, think what’s here been wrought: “Here lies a fellow mortal, who stood where you now stand. He read upon these markers, like words, which now you scan. Reading these inscriptions, great pity filled his heart. For he shared the numbing sadness that touched each mourning heart. Filled with deep comion, he paused to kneel and pray. To beseech the loving Father to grant mercy to him who here now lays. Silent in the darkness, lying heavy on his breast. Well done, oh fellow mortal, take comfort in your thoughts. You have blessed your sleeping servant, who needs each heartfelt thought. Pray , thou art mortal, and to here will someday come. Arise and make your exit, now go forth into the sun.”

The Final Day

I

Who is that standing just beyond my bed? A vision or a specter, or perhaps the one I’ve dread. My time, I sense, is fleeting; I feel Death’s chilling touch. Alas, my life is turning, unwinding like a spool of spinning thread. Will I fade to dreamless slumber, nevermore to be awake? Or arise to see my Maker, eternal life mine to partake?

II

The vision at my bedside fades slowly from my sight; In its place a haze so golden, it surrounds me, burning bright. Toward the light I seem to travel, as I slip my silver coil, To begin a final journey to a home I now recall. Fear no more can enfold me as I glide into the light, To the arms of he who loves me, to the palace of new life.

Death

Death, your claw stretches forth, snatching those we love. Like a ravenous beast, you strive to engulf all in your yawning maw. Everywhere, your kingdom is proclaimed, triumphant. In massive tombs filled with dust and in soaring spires, men struggle to mark their age. Yet these tokens give little solace. They contain not the essence of any life. All are stricken down, at length, smitten; we fall and fade, Leaving no real lasting marker or sign for those who follow. Like a fine patina of golden dust, our memory fades before the gentle breeze, leaving scarce a trace. Such cannot be the sum of all that marks our mortal age. Though we are cast down, and our bones fall to ash, some faint spark may linger yet. In faint embers, small sparks of ed light speak of what once we were. We live again, in the rosy glow of words and deeds softly heard, in the thoughts of those we knew.

Perhaps a word or phrase recalls a forgotten voice. In silence, lines penned long ago serve to remind of thoughts spun in days now gone. Thus, each lives again, and our defeat is not complete. We live, but in the smallest measure; perhaps a trace of our best lingers yet. Like puffs of smoke or fleeting clouds, we bring brief reminders. Memories—and we steal silently away.

My Angel

Oh my angel, grant me comfort, whenever I may call. Let me thank you for protection, Give me guidance when I fall. Let me feel your touch upon me, as I meet each brand new day. With your hand upon my shoulder, steer my footsteps lest I stray. At the end of each days’ hours, stay beside me as I sleep, That my soul may feel God’s mercy and my dreams be full of peace. Let me love to share your goodness with all I chance to meet. Let me never disappoint you in the manner that I speak. When in God’s own just purpose I must shed my earthly shell, Please lift me to the heavens with the power of your love.

Eternity I Saw

I

Once upon a moment, eternity I saw. It filled my mind with wonder as I held my breath in awe. To see in but an instant an endless tract of time; To know that all the ages exist in some strange clime. Present, past, and distant future interwoven in a web. Each there and ever living, still never quite defined. Yet the vision swiftly faded, leaving darkness in its stead, Filling me with endless wonder at the vision that had fled.

II

Never backward, ever forward spirals forth the skein of time To a future still unfolding, whose extents we can’t define. How the moments go on, fleeting, to a future still removed In the distance, ever moving, though we yearn to cross its lines.

III

Does the future have real presence? Does the past still somewhere dwell? Why has God so made His creatures, such that time so weaves its spell? Why, cannot we hold such moments? Why, cannot we keep the past? Why cannot we keep the memories, which slip from out our grasp? We are trapped within a river, in a stream where seconds race, Held fast in currents flowing, never seeing time as space.

The Bells

Hear the bells, so gently tolling, ringing softly cross the dells, Calling forth the world from slumber, for the sun does yonder break. In the midst of daylight streaming, hear the singing of the bells. See the sun so high and golden, which salutes the joy of day. At the end of each day’s labors, listen carefully to their knell. Work is done now, darkness cometh, Get thee home, to take thy bread. The sun’s bright face sinking quickly; Daylight falters in a breath. The sky so quickly fading falls to ebon black instead. Hear the bells ring, oh softly calling; souls stop to take their sleep. Take your rest now, loose your burdens; lying safe, in God’s arms you sleep. Sleep, till the bells will call at morning, they will call once again. Venture forth to face the new day, answer swiftly to their call.

A Man of God

When first we knew him, his shining smile showed us the love he felt for all. As we watched him labor and bear the burdens of his office, we marveled that his faith gave him such strength and serenity amid adversity and even hatred. Out of every adversity he moved forward, bowed but not broken by a world that seemed to mock goodness, to revel in sensationalized scandal. When the mighty powers of materialism were arrayed against him in political arrogance, he spoke not of force or resentment, but rather of the innate dignity and freedom that God gives every man. Gifts that could never be annulled by the creeds of misguided men. Always, he showed that love is the greater power. Even those who opposed him saw the beauty of his purpose. Ever he urged us: Let not fear rule your lives, but rather place your trust in God’s mercy. Let His mercy give you the courage to face a world overrun with cynicism and nihilist darkness. Look, he said, there is light, life, and purpose in every human being. Look, you shall see light shining ever brightly, in every human heart. Reach out and become saints. To the world, he said, reach out to God, and find in him the goodness he plants deeply within every heart. Look upward and see hope and love, even in death and loss; you will know that God’s love guides every life.

As old age and infirmity gripped his body, still he labored on, asking only that God use his life for God’s purpose. Thus even to his last breath he showed us how to live and die, by unparalleled meek example. Whatever the world may make of him and of his works, for one shining moment all hearts knew this man is of God. For a brief moment, the world looked upward, and saw the face of God smiling down upon earth, saying: “See how well I love you. I gave you my child to lift you up.”

John Paul II

The Father’s Mansions

At length the Risen One said unto His friends: “I go to prepare a place for thee, that you may be where I am.” Of this place his friends knew not; befuddled, they dared ask: “Where go thou, Master? We know it not.” The Risen One spoke: “Little have you learned, though I have abided with you all this while. I go to the Father that you also may be with me.” His friends heard these words and were full of fear and despair. Such a place was beyond their knowing, far removed from earth and sky. Beyond the bounds of any man. The Risen One, ever knowing the hearts of men, simply said: “In my Father’s house are many mansions. If it were not so I would have told you.” Hearing these words, men’s hearts were free of doubt and despair, knowing in an instant that their places were counted, and that the Risen One would call them home to him, in proper season. Such are the mansions of the Father; they are numbered as the stars. Counted only by the souls of his children, who must come home to

dwell there with him. For only in his home does the Father’s love ever completely abide. In his Home is where souls gain lasting peace.

Be Not Afraid

Be not afraid, he said, for fear ever seeks to grip human hearts, to make you cower in fright. See, I am with you, and fear may not claim you. Be not afraid, he said, for I have come to set you free, To give you life. Have faith, and you shall never be enslaved by fear’s cold bonds. Be not afraid, he said, for the Father has sent me that you may see and know His Love. Do not hide from his face, for he loves you as you are. Be not afraid, he said; I offer you my love, I give you my very life. Come, let me hold you in the very hollow of my hands. Be not afraid, he said, I have cast death down and opened heaven’s door for you. Do not fear to let go of things wrought by men. You are called to be so much more, by the waters of rebirth. Be not afraid, he said, I shall not lose any of my sheep. Come, my child, and my flock; be safe within my love. Be not afraid, he said; I shall show you how to conquer all manner

of adversity. You shall see it over and through you, without lasting harm. God keeps his own safe in the haven of his love. Be not afraid, he said, I shall pick you up when you fall. I shall be with you through every hour of your life, if you but call to me. Be not afraid, he said; place your trust in God’s mercy. All shall be yours to have on earth and in heaven. Be not afraid, he said, for you are never alone. I am ever with you, even when all seems lost. Be not afraid, h said, for my love and mercy are boundless, given to such a one as you. At length they heard his voice, and they were not afraid to live.

The Song of Francis

I sing to thee, oh God of love, who paints the twilight sky; Who gives the birds sweet songs to sing and wings on which to fly; Who makes the thrusting mountains stretch to kiss the lofty clouds; Who makes the sea to swell and roll to sing her silken songs; Who puts the moon in silver clouds to damp her light at dawn; Who holds me safely in his arms through nights that seem too long; Who gives me strength to face each day, whose burdens must be born. Upon my soul, he plays the notes, which give me songs to sing. He lets me feel his loving touch, in every sight I see. When at length he calls me home, to him I’ll gladly fly. Free from earth on golden wings, my soul will mount his sky. So sing my soul, of God’s great love, and long to see his face. He alone has sent his Son, to give to us his grace.

Mercy

When the soul has come to death’s grim door, what alone brings life anew? Mercy. When pain and suffering suffuse each night, what alone brings the hope of dawn’s bright light? Mercy. When loss and failure seize each day, what alone brings hope anew? Mercy. When anger’s wrath and despite abound, what alone brings peace? Mercy. For all of which ails the souls of men, what alone heals all? Mercy. From selfless love mercy springs, and this alone gives life to the full. So he said. So he did. So we pray.

The Heroic

I

How rare these souls who grace men’s lives and show to all the way. With light, they shine brightly Warming our hearts, lifting cares away. Now a smile, a gentle word, or encouragement they lend. Some there are, which speak few words, yet through grace they heal us still. Not of self or worldly claims are such great souls beguiled. For love of all, they live their lives, and love is theirs to give.

II

Sad are we when, in God’s time, these heroes leave the earth. Though we cry with flowing tears, still comfort will be ours. For such as these to heaven rise, as the sunlight paints the clouds. From God’s own throne we hear him say, Well-done, heroic one. Thus we know within our hearts that the good to God return.

They leave with such shining thoughts we are soon renewed.

The Gift

What person dares claim credit for their personal gifts? No one at all. For gifts arise from God’s abiding love. Called from naught, we were fully made in love, above all. What pride then, in talent, accomplishments, or clever thoughts? These are but the outcomes of that sown within our souls. Thus are gifts are willed by a spirit infused within us. Such are the joys and sorrows we have, in all we see, think, and do. They are but that which is our life. This is the gift of life; sweet, and sad. Just, and seeking justification; fulfilled, and still filled with yearning. Hopeful, and lacking hope; ever too short and verging on the eternal. Living in dreams, and bound in reality. Ours, and not ever our own. Being, so we may yet become. Light into endless light. Apart, till we are again one. This is the gift of life.

Strangers

A man and a woman meeting face to face on a dirty, cobbled way. The woman, a stranger, alone and lost in a strange city; The man, clad in a blood-soaked robe, his head encircled with a crown of thorns, sentenced to death. She surrounded by a howling mob. He lying on the cobbles, prostrate beneath a massive beam of wood. Their eyes meeting in soundless conversation. She soundlessly speaking words of deep comion and mercy. He without voice, crying out in deepest agony. She suddenly kneeling, wiping the blood and sweat from his face upon her veil. He closing his eyes, reflecting gratitude on his face for her comion. She, amazed to see the image of his face upon her veil. He, staggering up at the violent urgings of the cruel soldiers. Strangers met in a brief encounter, of seeming little note. He to stagger on to his death on the cross on Calvary. She, to wander off, lost in the pages of unrecorded history.

She, known only as Veronica, which means stranger. He, to become the Savior of the World. A brief encounter of strangers. Strangers, forever linked, by an act of selfless comion. An encounter, retold and celebrated, for over two thousand years. Strangers.

Nature’s Songs

In the whisper of the wind. The sighing of the snow. The silver light of the moon sailing smooth among the lacy clouds. The stretch of the shadows. The hiss of the rain. The laughter of a brook. Faint, though sweet, nature sings. Solace to my restless mind. Listen to some of the songs I heard upon wind, branch, and stream.

A Forest Glade

I

A dappled spot among the boughs, the pine scent fills the air. A secret haven found by chance, along a shaded trail. The fallen leaves a carpet makes, its hue a russet brown. A rotting stump becomes my seat as I sit my body down.

The trees all keep their distance as round this magic spot The bird songs stir the silence, with the lilts beyond my sight. It truly is refreshing to sit within this glade, Away from dazzling sunlight, in the cool of soothing shade.

II

I pause awhile to ponder the beauty of this spot, To revel in its silence, reflecting on my lot. I dare not make a motion, nor utter any sound For fear I’ll do no reverence to this place where peace resounds.

III

The buzzing of the insects, the fluttering of wings, The scurry of a squirrel, The rustle of the leaves, The sighing of some oak limb., The emerald green of moss; This is a piece of Eden, which men have not yet lost.

IV

Loath am I to rise up, to turn to take my leave As brambles on a brown bush hold fast upon my sleeve. My footsteps stir the silence as I leave the court of trees, The murmuring of the lindens sighing softly in the breeze.

V

I hope that I can find it, when morning calls out to noon. As I trace again my footsteps along these leafy lees.

If I cannot find it, and my footsteps go astray, Forever will I cherish the peace I found today.

The Clouds

I

An ever-changing kaleidoscope, above my head you drift. Tinted crimson by the sunlight, a rainbow’s home in mist. In my mind what shapes you take on as you wend along your way: A sailing bark, a sleeping prince, a wall of old Cathay.

II

How often as I lay down and stare into the sky, In shifting shapes, the hours hide as you slide and hurry by. A fortress-keep of graying swirls, edged swiftly by the winds, On summer morns, with tufts of white, ships sail on seas of wind. On winter morns, how tight you sit, amassed atop the sky. The sun’s gold light you shutter down beneath a cap of gray.

III

On canvas caught, you give each scene such symmetry and grace. With many hues and wispy strokes, each artist paints your face. The smoke of Zeus, an angel’s breath, the stairs to heaven’s doors. O clouds, you give the sky such a graceful state, and peace to men restore.

The Puddle

I

A sea in microcosm, you collect before my pane. A cache of summer showers, a gathering of rain. The circles on your surface in endless circles flow, As the dripping from a downspout adds volume to your show. The spreading flow of ripples, the click, clock, click of drops, The rhythm of the drippings, like the ticking of a clock. Reminding me of the evening, and the darkness of the night. Before you fell from heaven, to reflect the morning’s light.

II

I gaze in fascination at leaf upon your breast. It becomes a mighty clipper, sailing forth upon some quest. Its slow and stately voyage seems to last for many years. As the spreading tide of ripples make the vessel pitch and veer. Your ever-shining surface reflects a blazing sky

To return me to my morning, announcing my new day.

A Tumbling Brook

I

I came upon a tumbling brook, singing to the sky. Its crystal sheen and bumbling voice called me to its side. I rested there, upon its banks, to listen to its song. Its soothing notes lulled me so my thoughts just flowed along.

II

How long I stood, transfixed by sound, I cannot truly say. Until a bird’s sweet warbled notes aroused me from my state. I gazed once more upon its course, as it danced among the rocks. In crystal pools, silver still, I spied a cloudless sky.

III

I wondered where this brook might course, What vistas it might .

It hurries on, so self-absorbed, marking its own time. It does not know, nor truly care, who stops along its banks. It wends along, quite amused, singing to itself.

IV

Perhaps someday I shall return to rest upon these banks. To gaze anew upon this course, to listen to its song. I shall have aged, and so shall it, yet we are ever still the same. Inner selves, somehow renewed, to measure each new day.

A Brook

I

I hear your murmur as you race among the rounded rocks. Foam and bubbles form and fade from your flecks of sliver lace. Cold and sweet your water’s taste, I sip from out my hand. True refreshment on such a day; I toast the blazing sun.

II

Where you hurry and where you flow, I’m sure I cannot say. So now I’ll pause to walk with you, to share your trek this day. Will you show a quiet face, as you loll and laze along? Shall I find some racing falls and touch their ice-cold spray? Perhaps you’ll seek a silver lake, gleaming sharply in the sun. Or will your course just fade and fail beneath some mossy rocks?

III

If one must fly and along, he cannot mark your course. If one just stops and tarries here, along your wending way, He may your secrets learn, as he tarries here this day.

An Autumn Day

I

Red and purple, orange and gold; a blaze of color tints the trees. The air smells sweet, fresh, and cold; soon winter’s on his way.

II

A lazy pumpkin on the lawn sits grinning with a sneer. Silver lace, in tatted swirls, etched shiny on the panes. The blazing sun sends forth his rays to give the leaves their scent. I so enjoy the soothing warmth, which chases chill and dank.

III

In rolling fields the tawny weeds bow down their wispy heads. They sway and dance before the breeze that whispers o’er the land. Within a sky of burnished blue race clouds of starkest white. They seem to boil and melt away in metamorphic flights.

IV

As day’s end comes, the sun’s last light paints the sky a bright vermilion pink. The rosy glow tints the trees as I pause to stop and think. Soon night will fall and cast its spell, the sky will blaze with stars. Their crystal light in silence waits till moonbeams glint and dart. I’ll lay me down to seek my rest, the time to sleep will come. This autumn day, on winter’s eve, alas, is gone and done.

Autumn’s End

I

The final days of autumn burst bright upon the world. The sun’s bright rays warm the soul while winter, silent, waits. Still the world is warm and good; winter’s grip is kept at bay.

II

A touch of frost at dawn’s first light chills the waking soul. Indian summers and mellow days must soon just steal away. How bittersweet it seems to me to revel in skies of boundless blue, To marvel at the brilliant tints of leaves of golden hue, To welcome shade on lazy lanes, on long and silent walks.

III

I pause to smell sweet summer’s hints from grass of fading green. The flower’s scents waft along on warming southern winds.

Reminding me that time is flux, ever moving on.

IV

The season’s turns care not for men, so I must move along. Yet I shall cling to sunny dreams, while autumn speeds along. The final days of autumn’s reign are the sweetest days of all, Reminding me of all that was and what may come again.

Twilight

I

Early in the evening, to this high spot I will climb, To pause here for some moments to view the setting sun. In the purple blaze of twilight, I enjoy the master’s strokes. No canvas holds its beauties, no artist knows its face. Look there, a band of scarlet; see there a wisp of pink. There a band of orange; upon a faint horizon sits a trace of shining green. All swirling in such splendor, so vast across the sky.

II

Twilight fades softly and soon deserts the sky. It leaves me with such longing to see these pastel lights. To view once more such glory when the light of day must die. I pause in brief reflection to give to God my thanks, Showing me such beauty in the brilliant twilight sky.

Raindrops

I

Drip, drop, plop, plop. Like a ticking timepiece, the falling raindrops measure the second’s flight. Silver shapes, they slide quickly from my sight. Even so, the seconds fade, with no great pretensions. Instead, with quiet desperation, they lose their hold upon the day. How ironic is the flight of time. It es from future, to present, into a fading past; No friction stays its flight. How strange that we exist in a flux of moments That drift silently away, like wisps of hazy smoke.

II

I ponder the age of these diamond drops; Pure and radiant, they simply slide down the pane.

They leave but faint traces of their age. These fade, when the sun bursts forth anew. Even so is the age of my life, Like a string of silver drops: Brief hints of light that softly slip away.

The First Snowfall

I

The snow is softly falling It alights among the trees. Like a spotless virgin blanket, it tucks-in fallen leaves. Not a sound disturbs the quiet, no bird sends forth a song. The world in deepest silence greets the snow’s first winter’s fall. Soon the fading meadows lie veiled in gowns of white. A plain of dazzling beauty, to awake at dawn’s first light.

II

The light is swiftly failing and soon will fade to black. I wait with senses whirling the coming of first light. This wondrous earthly beauty lies far beyond mere verse. It stirs in me great longing to see first winter’s snow.

Texas Wild Flowers

Here upon the prairie, beneath the Texas sky, A sea of red and yellow nods slowly in the wind. In truth, there is no beauty; that is the work of men As rival to such splendor, this art of God’s own hand. In wheels of perfect color, how they dazzle human eyes. Like jewels set in the hillsides, shedding grace upon the earth. To gaze upon their beauty brings gladness to the soul, Affirming nature’s glory and the perfection of its works. The harmony of colors, the grace of simple forms, All serve as a reminder of the beauty of the earth.

A Winter Journey

I

The day is cold and somber. The sky is leaden gray. The snow has just stopped falling; not a soul has ed this way. The night will swiftly gather, its touch will chill my soul. I must seek to find some shelter to flee the numbing cold.

II

To the east, some smoke is rising; it’s reaching for the sky. It may mark a bit of shelter, a place where I might lie. I trudge along the byway my age leaves a wake. Perhaps some folks will follow, to tread the path I make.

III

At length I reach a turning and there, beyond the bend,

I spy some blackened timbers amid a roof that’s tumbled in. A pall of burning ashes circles slowly in the sky. My eyes begin to water as I turn and trudge away.

IV

Swiftly night has fallen, now darkness hides my way. Alas, I’ve found no shelter, though I traveled far today. Soon sleep will overtake me, for I cannot walk all night. I’ll stop when slumber summons While the creeping cold steals my life away. No more I’ll see the morning, or awaken from my sleep. Instead, in endless numbness, I’ll lie in snowdrifts deep.

Night

I

Silent, oh so silent, the night it es by. The darkness holds my secrets as silently I lie. My rooms are standing vacant; they await the coming morn. While photos upon the mantle stand forgotten and forlorn. With no one to observe them, how vacant seem their smiles. For they bring no recognition that falls upon no eyes. The ticking of a wall clock marks the seconds in their flight. While pendulum slow swinging traces arcs in silent flights.

II

I awaken on a moment to rise up in my bed. I nod in sleepy torpor and fight to clear my head. The hissing of the silence pounds heavy in my ears. The darkness seems to deepen as it fills my gloomy room. I pray to see the morning, when the darkness disappears.

My room resumes its aspect, which dispels this ebon gloom.

A Gray Day

I

The lord of light is hiding today, his golden light lies dimmed. Dimmed behind a wall of somber gray, the sky draped in blackish tints. Rolling, boiling, leaden clouds, which fly and dart along. Clouds singing some silent songs. In my heart, I dimly feel these songs, though I cannot sing along.

II

How eagerly my eyes strain to spy a sea of blue amid the gray. A sea of blue, which will transform these leaden clouds. In seas of purest blue, the sun’s gold rays can paint the ashen gray to shining white or tints of smoky pink.

III

Alas, the seas of blue will not appear this day, as heavy clouds hold sway.

Thus the rain in earnest falls as roofs and streets become shining new. Somber is a rain-filled day, when the world grows dim and dark. The flooded streets are empty now; lonely as well, I think.

Twilight’s Flight

I

A swath of pastel colors is sprayed across the sky. In the glory of the twilight, I fear that night is nearly nigh. The brilliant glints of orange are hemmed with purple bands As a line of blue green cloudlets accents the brilliant sky. The soothing pastel colors seem to swirl about and fade. As the pall of coming evening drapes her veil of velvet black.

II

Thus, without a warning, the sky just fades to black. Filled with points of silver, some stars come winking back. The waxing moon now rising soon rules the darkened sky. The glory that was twilight simply fades and dies.

Night Sky

I

In the south, city lights hem the cloak of evening. An amber glow is fading as it blends and trails to black. The sky above is ebon; it’s swept clean of so few stars. Lingering stars flicker as their argent light peers through drifting clouds. As light’s slow procession shines along as the clouds go ing by. Clouds fading in the distance, beyond my straining eyes. I view the moon’s arising as it frames the clouds with light. Clouds tinted silver as the moon climbs high into night.

II

In the air, a hint of winter lingers, as steam now marks my breath. The streets are etched in silver in the moon’s reflected rays. Shadows tall come stealing; they encroach where now I stay. Still I scan the star-swept heavens as I feel night’s silken hand. Hours flow too swiftly; soon the dawn will rule the sky.

Soon I must to slumber to dream of night’s deep skies.

A Thunder Storm at Night

I

The darkness of the nighttime sky is suffused by silver light. In the west, a clap of thunder wakens sleepers in a fright. Those who lay in fitful dreaming are called from slumber’s shore To awake in apprehension, as they hear the wind’s loud roar. In a rage they pound their pillows to escape to their repose. Still the storm bombards the night sky as winds attacks the windows and rattles at doors. The panes are framed in lighting as their bolts assault the earth. Rumbling with menace, the earth in restless anger groans. The storm attains crescendo as down the showers pour.

II

At length the storm is fading, as a battle far removed. In its wake, the drip, drip, drop of downspouts counts the seconds as they slip.

The sleepers, worn and weary, retreat to sleep’s dim shore. They rest in peaceful silence, safe from thunder’s wake-up call.

Reflections in a Pond

I

Unstable and inverted, they weave and drift about. Reflections, in a millpond, of the things about this spot. There spreads a stately maple, dull red against the sky, Whose foliage fades to faded green in murky, weed-filled depths. An old mill adds some color from a lazy sagging bank, Its millwheel turning slowly to the race’s groaning crank.

II

I peer into the mirror, and staring back I see A face now gnarled and scowling, not the man I once could see. I feel a tinge of sorrow for this fellow now so changed, A thin and stooping figure, alone and quite estranged. No woman stands beside him where once she used to be; I long to see her soft smile smiling sweetly back at me.

III

A breeze disturbs the surface, and my glass begins to shift. Now I see the sunset in flaming orange tints. The night will soon be falling, so I must leave this place. Alone I’ll trace my footsteps to my waiting silent rooms, To sleep at last, and dreaming, perchance there I’ll see The one I love beside me, in that mirror near the trees.

The City in Rain

The roofs are black and shiny with the sheen of recent wet. The sky is low and heavy, a portent of more rain. I stare out through my windows at puddles in the street Inscribed with growing circles, like a pane of shattered glass. They reflect a sky now ashen as clouds go racing by To hurry on some errand as they warp within their flights. The gutters run with water, filling downspouts with their lace. Runoff swiftly flowing down the alleys in a burbling-bubbled race. At the curb a whirling eddy, spinning swiftly round a drain. I think it must be humming, but I cannot hear its refrain. I sit and watch for minutes, entranced by what I see: A city bathed by showers, renewed by fallen rain.

The Seawall

I

The wind upon the ocean lifts up a veil of spray. It makes the air smell salty as I stand upon this quay. The pounding of the breakers as they slam upon the shore Makes the granite shake and shudder as through the rocks it pours. Like a never-ending legion, waves assault this old seawall. With sprays of arching silver, they vault upon the shore. The sea is such a maelstrom as it boils among the groins. So intent upon destruction, it attacks the helpless shore. The power of the ocean, so fierce it seems today, So unlike the green-blue blanket lapping quiet on these quays. So like a living being, with its moods of calm and wrath, Now it rages with such ion that it shakes this aged wall.

II

Will the wall withstand such pounding?

Will it stand amid this storm? Or perhaps fall to rubble, to fall beneath the swells. A mass of broken boulders, when the sea’s dark wrath is spent. We will wonder what has smashed it, this simple work of men, As it lies in scattered ruins on a sleepy, gentle shore.

A Ray of Sunlight

A shaft of amber sunlight steals soft across the floor. Silently it tells the hours, with neither clicks nor clinking chimes. With tint and shadowed inclination, a practiced eye discerns each hour’s name as it es by. Thus, in staid progression rites of age are played out upon this polished floor. Silent, oh so silent, does time tread upon this floor. Telling hours, days, and seasons, as I alone here count. The shades of marching hours must cease for me someday, Yet the sunlight will parade here, ever, awaiting other eyes.

The Pond’s Looking Glass

I

There beneath the surface, in this pond’s round looking glass, Images, soft and waving, dance amid rippled flow. The colors still are present though muted by the green. They’re seen as in a mirror whose glass is not pristine. It surely is a pleasure to enjoy this peaceful spot, To reflect upon those people who once stood upon this plot. They never saw a mirror wrought from any glass; Instead, they saw dim figures, imprisoned in these depths.

II

I stare into the water, and there I dimly see A figure lonely peering, standing near a leaning tree. How alike must be my image to those of men now past, For this lens makes no distinction of the fashion or the time.

III

The night will soon be falling, and the sky will shade to black As the figures ‘neath the surface will melt and ebb away. No more my eyes can see them, for their life comes from the light. Perhaps I’ll return in morning, when the sun relights the sky.

Beyond A Bend

I

Upon a road of twisting turns, I stand here on its crown. The crystal drops of morning dew lie brightly on the ground. I cannot peer beyond these bends, which wind off to the west, So what may lie along this road I can but only guess. How odd it seems to me that far beyond the bend A stately stand of ancient oaks may shade a lovely well. To offer shade and cooling drinks, a place where one may rest. I cannot tell if they are there, yet in thoughts they seem to be. Standing there in shadows cool to shelter one like me.

II

To view this world as one may wish amuses idle minds. Yet any fool can surely see that mind is no master, and nature has her will. The master’s hand upon His work affirms the truth of this. I may dream and wish it so, but the world will never yield.

It steers a course and owns a form that waits beyond each bend.

The Old Stone Wall

I

There you are, old-timer, still standing in the leaves. You’re covered o’er with brambles, entwined in ivy greens. How long have you been standing and marking out this line? In the middle of this woodland, an artifact of time. Some say that old slaves laid you, a stone upon a time, As they struggled to erect you to demarcate some line. Others say that settlers made you as they cleared these rock-ribbed lands, To scratch the earth with furrows, to sow their meager crops. You keep a lonely vigil upon this shady path, and your silence locks your secrets in the crannies of your rocks.

II

I climb and sit upon you, and I dream that in your past A fellow sat upon you to think these self-same thoughts. He’s gone and long forgotten, as I will someday be,

Yet you will be still be standing, strong and silent in the leaves.

The Cave

Among the stones, a narrow slit, trimmed with moss and water drips. Boulders lean like leering teeth, a cooling breath upon my cheek. An electric torch to light my way, it parts the dark with yellowed rays. A tiny spot upon the floor marks a path to lead my way. With measured tread I clamber down, dripping drops the only sound. High above and out of sight flow rocks like ropy ice. Veins of green and gold and blue, columns arch and soar in view. A vaulted ceiling in the earth, carved by waters’ flow. To the left I spy a waiting pool, its surface a shining jewel. Not a ripple stirs its face as it sleeps in ebon black. I pause and bend to try a taste in fountain known by few. Still sweet to drink, this cave-bound brew, made from heaven’s rainy dew. At once I feel a growing chill, a hint of wind comes through. To its source I start to chase, to clamber up with careful haste. There at length I see some light, a shining beam cuts the black. So at last I’ve found a door, I’ll step through to explore. What is this? I’m amazed!

It’s the entrance to this cave! Thus it seems I’ve circled back, a sure amazing fact!

The Dawn

A slender band of orange glints sharply upon the dark horizon. The horns of a waning moon, a fading wraith, turn from tarnished gold to wispy white. Drifting clouds brushed with shades of pink bursting to scarlet and orange are lighted as the rising sun claims the sky. The night fades before a dawn, heralding the coming of a new day. A new day that summons souls to awaken to meet their fates. Thus the silence of the night gives way before an anxious dawn hurrying to bring new tidings. How I wait for dawn to come. Anxious to see those first fingers of light, dispelling the nagging dark that drags heavy upon me. How my heart turns from gnawing sadness to growing joy. Joy when the first faint streaks of light signal the knell of night. Dawn, the single instant when the fears of night first fall away. Dawn, bringing the promise: Darkest night must yield before the growing light.

A Bower

I

A quiet haven on the downs, bars of light on limbs of brown. A respite from the blazing sky, cool and soft your shadows lie. I pause to sit among your trees to take my comfort in a breeze, which rustles softly in fallen leaves.

II

From a seat of moss and twigs, I view a field mowed and still. Haystacks lazing in the sun awaiting the time till workers come To cart the hay from this sweet spot, to hide in barns for winter stock.

III

The sky above is laced with clouds, billowed full they sail about. A glint of silver from a brook causes me to pause and look. To reflect upon this stand of trees, and the cooling shadows of its lees.

This tiny bower on a hill, where one may touch and feel the breeze. Calming soothes the harried, racing mind. A vantage point to scan the sky. A place to rest and gather strength. To rise and tread the paths once more, to walk along till journey’s end.

Sea Shore

I

Off the sands the heat waves rise to make the air dart and dance. A gentle breeze fills billowed sails, chasing boats afar from shore. A cooling spray from windblown surf gives the air a salty smell. The endless hiss of ebbing surf disturbs the tug of clinging sands.

II

The rolling rumbles of the waves lulls me to a restful state From whence I scan these vistas broad, meeting in a distant line. A line too vague and far from me to make sharp from where I stand.

III

I lay me down to read my book; I nod and nap and drift along. The hours slip and melt away, no clock to count their names. I so enjoy the hours spent along a sea-kissed shore.

A City Blizzard

I

A howling blizzard comes to call on our city near the sea. The whistling winds and swirling snow make the world a haze of swirling white. The drifting snow has filled the streets, packing cars tightly to the curbs. The roofs are caped with hoods of white that stream on northern winds.

II

I bundle up and go outside to view this world in winter-white. The eerie still of silenced horns is something queer for straining ears. The swirling snow flutters down, caught in the streetlamp’s amber glow. Trees and yards along my street become mounds of drifted snow. Hillocks rising, ruling windswept yards. Traffic lights, bound fast in ice, wink weakly to themselves. Snow-blown streets devoid of souls need no leave to along. The stinging cold upon my lips gives me cause to feel some fear;

I’ll soon be lost in drifting snow and never find my way. I turn about and hurry back to find my snowbound home. Eager to come inside to flee the searing winter cold. To shed my coat and icy boots for soothing steam-dried warmer clothes.

III

Before my window bound in ice, I sit and watch the driving snow. The hours and slip and slide; still the snow comes whirling down. The sky has gone from frigid white to a lid of somber black. Soon I leave my window seat to slumber in my bed. To dream of snow that never stops till it stands just rooftop high. I will glide along the drifts on my whizzing Fleet Wing sled. Is any dream so truly sweet as falling snow that lasts for many days? Great excitement greets your eyes to see a world made anew. Made anew in purest snow of blazing winter-white. Waiting there just for you, for snowball fights, and speeding sleds. A city blizzard brought all this—I saw it was just so.

An Oak

I

I came upon an ancient oak within a wooded tract. Its bark was dark and lined with age, its roots were vast and black. I marveled at its arching limbs soaring up to meet the sky. I wondered what had ed him by, within his arching hall. Two hundred years at least he saw while rooted to this spot. As sapling slim, as mighty tree, the world has made so many turns. What he knows and what he tells—these thoughts just seem to spring to mind. Yet only winds and creaking limbs resounded in my ears.

II

How strange it is that on our earth there dwell such aged things. Though we may pause, and stop and sit, we cannot read their minds. Perhaps they have but naught to say, that one could comprehend. Maybe they dozed so long in sleep, not a one has ever tried.

How proud is man, who walks the earth and tries to bends it to his will. Yet here an old and silent tree with patience learns much more. A man may travel many leagues to try to see and learn. Perhaps this tree, though rooted fast, has learned from root and limb. He feels the rain. The golden sun. The dark and musty earth. He knows the wind. The chilling frost. The blanket of the snow. Perhaps a day, maybe a year, is as reckoned in tree time. People in such a blur, that he scarce has time to think. Still seated here against this trunk, I’ll strain to hear his oaken voice. While seconds stretch, I soon nod off, to drift into peaceful sleep. In dreams, I’ll hear his voice deep and very soft. Intoning, thus he spoke in measured somber tones: The earth is soft. The rain is cool. The sun gives all his golden light. The birds sing sweet upon my limbs. The night is velvet soft.

A crown of stars I wear each night as I scan the vaulted skies. The seasons roll and me by, leaving many gifts. Yet seldom does a human pause to sit beneath my boughs. They hurry by, oh so swift, like pollen on the wind.

Stars

Points of light twinkling softly in vaults of velvet black. Strewn about in lazy arcs and aimless arched bands. Cast freely upon the void, a joy for eyes to behold. Sown by hands long since fled, leaving us this silver gift. Men gaze with awe-filled eyes in wonder at these lights. Ever struck by what they are or what they have become. Sailing far from mortal grasp and ever sought by straining eyes. When the sun deserts the boundless sky, patterns, lines, and varied forms soon suggest their varied parts. Imagined names. Legends told. Signs and omens, fixed above, attached to slow, wheeling lines. They mark the age of countless mortal lives, in seasons without apparent end. Numbered beyond all mortal count, they fill the heavens with silent beauty. Even weary hearts, heavy bent and worn, cannot resist their uplifting call. Mortal eyes behold their pristine light and pause to think. Perhaps each star marks the place where dwells some mortal soul.

Souls soaring in endless flight, giving men a gift of light. A gift to those who stand and stare, bound now to the earth. A promise eternal, for every life, small and great, may give such a wondrous gift. What star shall we be, when we at last must leave this earth? Bright and clear we may become, casting some welcome light upon the souls that follow us. Small and faint, if our spirits earned such a meager measure.

The Moon

I

Oh how wondrous is the moon, the jewel of nighttime’s sky. Waxing, waning, red to gold, never seeming twice the same. Your argent light upon the earth sends creeping shadows forth. As haloed clouds drifting by veil your shining face. Like a ship on steady winds, you steer by silver crystal stars. Across the night you glide along to havens near the dawn. On silver decks, a visage shows, regarding awestruck men. Silent though at first it seems, its voice sings siren songs.

II

“Look upon my shining face, and hear my silken voice. Here I sail upon the sky, ever gazing at the earth. My silver light upon your face will give your soul great peace. Ever constant is my touch upon the hearts of men. Have no fear of star-crossed skies, for my light is never far.

I shall banish all your cares when I sail upon the sky. Now look with care, and see my smile and see me slowly nod. Never, ever will you find that I shall turn my face upon the souls who look to me, as I climb night’s ebon skies. I shall be your constant guide, across your span of years. Though your strength will wane and fade, my light will bring you hope. Helping you at last to rise and sail among my stars.”

III

Never truly can a man gaze upward to the moon and fail to feel its gift of peace. A gift of peace, sailing softly upon the night.

The Anthem of the Sun

I sing to thee, oh orb of gold, the lord that lights our days. For in the bounty of your light all life is truly spun. You chase the angry dark away; you fill men’s souls with hope. In the glow of blazing day each life now finds its worth. In your warmth, we feel the glow of life within our veins. We know at last, without a doubt, that life is truly good. If your hide beyond the clouds, we yearn to see your face. When at length you come again, you illuminate men’s souls. Every dawn renews your pledge to bring to men your light. Never failing to bring us hope, in the gift of each new day.

Fireflies

I

A thousand points of golden light, they dart about the night. Endless motes of merriment, they play in fields grown dark. Twinkling lights in cadence strange, a message they proclaim. What they say is never heard by any sons of man.

II

If bychance one should light upon my outstretched arm, Loath I am to let it fly and lose this gentle light. Yet when it flies, it seems to sing a hymn of silent joy, For freedom is so ever sweet to any living thing.

III

Without a sound, they signal on till men must seek their beds. Out of windows in the dark, they twinkle in the night.

Giving comfort to watching eyes, that darkness rules not the night.

IV

In elder days, men believed your lights were fairy lamps. Still it seems to little ones, who marvel in the night. Filled with awe, young spirits rise to in soaring flights. To dance away the day’s sweet end, till sleep fills tired eyes.

V

Fireflies, the smallest gift, whose moment seemed so slight. Still their name instills true joy, though years have gone in flight. When at night I close my eyes and dream of summer’s eves, In velvet black their lights abound, giving comfort to my soul.

Old Mister Oak

I

Amid a field of rolling hills, their stands an old oak tree. Proud and tall, he stretches out to touch the soaring skies. In shadows deep beneath his leaves, men have shared his blessed shade. Yet few of these have ever heard the songs of aged Mister Oak.

II

On summer days I often paused to sit with Mister Oak. For in my dreams I called to him to sing to me his song. Yet though I tried to hear him sing, he never loudly sang. Still I thought I heard his songs whispered softly on the wind.

III

The songs I heard have no words that I can truly speak.

What he sang brought me great peace and stilled my troubled soul. In silent nights, I sometimes think he sang of cooling rains. Soft and sweet, the soothing earth, and winter’s silent snows. These I know, are fantasies I make to ease my heart. For man and tree can never speak what es from their souls.

IV

I have no words or silver notes that tell the songs of trees. Still I know within my soul that I have heard their songs. When I lay beneath these leaves, and I will no longer stray, He’ll sing to me his sweetest songs as I sleep within his shade.

A Winter Night

I

In the heart of winter, in the ebon depths of night, I peer out my frosted window, upon a moonless sky. In silence profoundly deep, I feel a chilling touch. Loneliness comes to me, to wait quietly at my side. Not even the slow twinkling of scattered stars stirs my soul, so distant do they shine. Not ever in my deepest dreams can I span the space where the stars burn so fierce and bright.

II

Upon the horizon, rectangles dark and broad dot the darkened sky. Sentinels that ward the night in brooding silence. They offer not a trace of hope in the somber night. In the distance, a square of warming yellow light is shining. Hopeful light amid the sea of endless black and gray.

In the midst of nothingness a light burns, marking the place where another soul may stand. A soul peering into the winter’s pitch, hoping to see other signs of life and hope. To know, in small measure, that the night is not watched alone. Without sound, a bond of hope forms, as squares of light commune. The silent black slowly recedes, awaiting the coming of dawn’s gray light.

A Walk in the Rain

How strange the lure of falling rain. It calls to me from my dampened window’s sill. Entranced, I find myself walking alone on streets polished slick and clean. The steady beat of pelting drops upon my taut umbrella, recalling themes played in the depths of my drifting mind. Background music to ease a soul, who walks these streets alone. Without plan or purpose, I wander along. My eyes drawn to the racing streams, whose laughing voice mocks the brooding anger of the cloud-locked sky. Streets empty of people would be forlorn, were it not for the glistening beads of raindrops. Raindrops racing merrily down windows slick with rain. Adrift in dreams and hopes, I walk along. Unexpected, I return from whence I came. Somehow soothed and justified, I come once more to sit alone. Silently watching the rain, beside my rain-streaked window. Recalling with vague regret, I am no longer walking within the rain’s sweet embrace.

Reflections

Reflections on a variety of loosely connected subjects that came stealing into my mind. Written as they arrived. Gathered here, so they will not be cast away. Reflections on time, the nature of thought, and so on.

Tiny bits of broken glass, they lay strewn about along the corridors of the mind. Untouched for years, they lie beneath the settled dust of disuse. Glanced at a moment, subjected to the glare of introspection’s light. Bits of shattered glass providing reflections of many things. Some are so misshapen that they convey only confusion. Others, rearranged, yield sights bringing forth sounds and emotions of dazzling purity. Scenes from times ed by. Some are wisps of smoke. Dreams that once filled us with high hopes, now grown faint and uncertain. Others are but conjectures that excite the imagination in a flash, Only to quickly fade to confusing uncertainty. All are real and unreal. They are the reflections of that which lies among the dust of faded days; Reflections of dreams and ideas slowly ebbing away.

The Crossroads of My Mind

In a time that seems unsettled, in a most perplexing clime, I face real indecision at the crossroads of my mind. On paths bereft of markers, without a certain sign, I strain to judge my options at the crossroads of my mind. Confusion without purpose; ends so ill-defined. The only things for certain are the paths I have declined. In the action of decision lies a fate I’ll soon define. So I choose an option at the crossroads of my mind. To progress along a pathway, pressing forward into time. I travel to the future from the crossroads of my mind. Thus the future finds me and creates the present time. To follow new directions from the crossroads of my mind.

Thoughts Alone

In silence soft and subtle, I spend some time alone. Not a whisper stirs the silence, save my thoughts alone. I seek to find amusement as I write some simple verse. On subject that emerges, from whence I do not know. What hand guides my writing? Is it something that I know? Perhaps it’s just the shadows of some dreams that I have known. So upon reflection I end this little verse Enfolded in the silence, which are my thoughts alone.

A Red Volume

A red volume lies shut upon a table of well-worn oak. Gone are the caring hands that once turned its pages with attention and dedication Through days filled with joy and sadness, In times of uncertainty and anxiety. These yellowed pages offered thoughts of wisdom, worth, and comfort. Now no more do dog-eared pages or bookmarks single out ages once thought so apt. Nothing remains to give the barest hint that this volume was A source oft-consulted. Now it lies deserted, awaiting others to scan its text, iring well-turned phrases and lucid lines. Once offering reflections and ideas that now lie dormant behind a cover closed tight. A pall of endless dust settles silently, marking uncounted days. Wisdom lies smothering beneath a gathering mantle of dulling gray. How long must the dust gather till it’s swept aside? Perhaps this volume will crumble away, never again to open its cover

to another eye. If this is so, this world the poorer is. Lines to write, yet time growing short; soon steals away. Ever thus, life the sweet too quickly fades. Slips our grasp, leaving much untold. Mortals all, we live and fade, leaving little to mark our sojourn here. Yet lines inscribed upon a page shed some feeble light. Illuminating thoughts and reflections penned in times long ed. Thoughts captured and bound fast in lines of text, traced upon a yellowed page. Thoughts come alive anew. Thoughts, speaking to those who scan the text with attentive eyes. Strange how lines upon a page glow like fading embers. They are all that linger to remind us of a light that briefly burned so bright.

Time

I

Time, the faceless tyrant ruling every life. Silent into shadows fly the hours in their flight. Leaving dreams to fade like embers in a fire now banking low. The hours at their turning remind us that a life is made of fleeting moments. Thoughts tinted in golden light or blurred by tears. We cannot hold the seconds that slip beyond our grasp.

II

Seconds are elusive, and formless, yet they are the fabric of reality. Vainly, we strive to ignore the incessant whispers and carping, gnawing at the edges of what we are. Faces and moments slide into the dim recesses of fading memory; Memory where they slowly wilt and melt away. Pale shades of what was once so brilliant and full of vivid light and

color. They dim and slowly fade to brown.

III

Captives, we are captured in a current that sweeps us down to a sunless sea of unsounded depths. What endures of love, joy, wisdom, and wit? Perhaps a faded photo or a crumpled greeting card with a few lines scribbled upon its margin. These linger, reminding us of a light that shone so bright before giving way to endless shadows. Thus does time sweep away all dreams. The noble, the base, and the brilliant, all these tossed upon the ash heap of forgetfulness. The brighter the light, the deeper the darkness at its fading.

A Path Less Traveled

A path less traveled have I chosen. Where it leads, I cannot guess. I chose it for just this cause. Paths aplenty there are with well-marked signs and known destinations of predictable bent. These offer surer age, but of discovery and marvels little can they offer. The surer paths I reject. No, I have chosen to tread a path poorly marked and little used. A path that may lead to sights and sounds, marvels to eye and mind. Dare I hope this will be so? By most measures, there are many risks to such a path. I may travel many leagues for naught and be judged a wastrel and a fool Yet if I dare it not, what profits will lay unclaimed by such a timid soul? How will a safe and timid age weigh in the ing of a life? A meager profit for so long to travail. I take the path less traveled, the more difficult way. Risking much, I hope to gain in greater measure.

I know not where I may travel. I must put fear and trepidation aside to take the journey. There is no path to perfection on the wide and easy path. One must choose to tread the narrow and steeper way. The path less traveled.

The Hexagon

A simple figure etched upon a field of faded yellow. Drawn by a hand now without a name. Angles and edges defined, connected in vague and sketchy blue arcs. Closed and bounded, yet somehow vague and indefinite. A simple figure or perhaps a riddle. What does your image portray? What relationship or vision was your form written to engender? Are you but a mindless doodle, or was some further meaning implied by your figure? Neither prose nor further blandishments exist to unlock the intent of your symmetric form. Left for me to ponder, I become entrapped in a snarl of geometricengendered tensions. I seem to sense your purpose, yet the notion slyly slips away. What is the significance of a six lines alone upon this page? I cannot guess, and none now living can say. You must ever remain an enigmatic figure. A prologue or a footnote, without benefit of chapter or verse.

A marker, whose message has vanished, without a trace.

Silent Music

The silence plays soft music in the corners of your mind. If you listen, you can hear it as it spins its wistful songs. In the quiet of your day dreams you can hear familiar strains. Hear the notes that swell so smoothly as they ease your mental pains. Let the silence play its music. Let it fill your lonely self. Let the music melt your shadows and erase your ashen gloom. Never fear the touch of silence as it falls upon your ears. For it brings a silken softness to fill an empty room.

Cycles

Arcs in space, the fabric of our lives. Seemingly retraced in the haze of silent dreams. In the flow of seasons and the vast wheeling of the stars, our lives ebb and flow in mystic cycles. Perturbed by hidden tides and currents, shifting every scene. Within each new cycle, we seem to return to places, times, and events. Still these returns are never perfect images of themselves. Transformed by the act of returning. Each cycle of our life reshaped by its rebirth. Moving each of us in trajectories we cannot define. Vainly we seek to relive and recapture what we held most dear; we cannot. Like awaiting the returning tide, we come to know that the sea and life are never twice the same. Each seeming return reveals some new aspect of its supposed same self. Cycles our lives may seem, but in truth, they are not; nor can they ever be so. We may never return to where we were, nor be again what once we were.

These are gone and cannot exist ever again, despite our fondest wish. All that is becomes new each day. Our lives and all of creation are part of an endless wheeling dance. Steps along a path unseen, to ends we cannot guess.

Sleep

To sleep is to feel the briefest touch of death. To die is but to sleep, endlessly wrapped in a veil of nothingness. We should not fear sleep. We neither know, nor care, what the world makes of itself. We become nothing and thus have no stake or concern in the traffic of the living. Silence soft and warm holds us in her silken arms. We slide into darkness and we loosen our grip upon our rationality. Pain, sorrow, and perplexity give way, by degrees, to velvet black. I wonder why we face such horrors, fighting to keep our hold on pain and ion. Far better to let these burning things fade and simply slip away. Not with wisdom or rationalization does one choose to sleep. Rather, one simply lets go.

A Face in the Glass

I

I stare into the glass and captured there I see A visage old and wizened, staring back at me. The blush of youth has vanished; it’s shed from this old face; There upon my hairline sprout tufts of gray instead. A cheek once smooth and rosy, firm and wrinkle free Is graven o’er with care lines, like the bark of some old tree. Brows once dark and arching have lost their slender shape; Like brambles dabbed in sliver, they spread shadows on my face.

II

Like many men before me, I see the pall of age. I feel the tug of sadness as I stare at this old face. Yet it is still certain this visage that I see, Still shows a trace of gladness and a smile that some may see. Half-formed as in a grimace, some secret would bestow

A hint that youth is wasted on the young—as well we know.

A Cry

I

People of this nation, what is it you crave? Your pursuit of self-indulgence will dog you to the grave. From within a drug-filled aura you loll in self-abuse. With no concern for duty, you waste the time of youth. Bereft of sense of service to others over self, You wander in the wastelands of fallacy and lust.

II

Before your howling consoles, youthful icons you adore, While lonely, homeless people , unnoticed by your doors. Mindless you go speeding in racing, shining cars. Their plumes of leaden vapors spreading poison near and far.

III

Take heed you slaves of mammon, and cease your mindless chase. Stand still for just an instant to hear the voice of grace. Seek out the spark of kindness that lives within your soul. Find, instead, the source of merit in the things that make you whole. If you heed your inner spirit, you will find the proper road. The gifts you give to others will save your very souls.

Time

I

I often wonder what you are. A thing of fact, or perhaps of mind. Signposts on a path, serving to mark the miles between so many stops. Like a current swiftly flowing, sweeping all before it toward an everreceding future. No artifice exists that can halt your march. A ticking clock upon a wall, whose hands spiral through the web of hours. Marking the seasons of lives without regard or comment.

II

Stop your course, oh damned thing. Halt these rolling years. Your drag upon my life brings closer all my darkest fears. Ever forward you go, toward a darkness no man can ever know.

To my end, where no stars will shine to give my eyes their light. There will be no spring nor taste of sweet wine. Nor even the breath of wind upon my face. Time at last, whatever it may be, will lose its claim upon me.

An Illusion

What is an illusion? Why, it’s something that’s a not. It’s a figment of the senses, a perversion of a fact. We think we hear some whispers or spy a cloud-drawn face. Yet in truth, there are no voices or even people in this space. Much is made of nothing, even truth is cast in doubt. Shadows mold our visions, washing grayness into blacks. Edges line a surface, to depict a shape of what we know. Then a shift of one’s perspective steals the form we thought was so. Alas, we are deluded by things that cannot be. For much is but illusion, that’s plain enough to me.

Visions in My Mind’s Eye

The absence of light brings visions to my mind’s eye. Flashes of violet and blue. Lines, circles, and checkered grids. These float and flash, unconstrained upon my eyelids. Orphans from misplaced thoughts and dreams. Leftover images of the day; who knows? What do these shifting images tell me? What experiences do they summon forth for me to see? I fathom them not. Like some strange ciphered tape, they are unrolled before me. I struggle to find the means to clear their texts. Perhaps they are mere fragments of thoughts arrested in their flight. Thoughts struggling to become complete. Seeking actualization in the blackness of my sight, becoming fully perceived. Strange that these visions bring forth such stirrings of tension, as they flicker unresolved and obscured. Phantoms, fragments, or soaring rationality, I cannot focus them to

any completed state. I simply watch them as the flicker and flash in my mind’s eye. Pulsing to some rhythm that I only vaguely infer. They remain an enigma that vanishes into the blackness of sleep. To return again, unbidden, to my mind, when I return to that land that lies between wakefulness and sleep. The realm where the mind’s eye struggles to see and to know.

Memories

Tears, unbidden, fill my eyes, as notes evoke times and moments that are no more. Where has all that once filled my soul with such joy and promise fled? Like beams of golden sunlight, they warmed my eager heart, only to steal away softly into the purple shadows of day’s end. Now in memory alone, they come stealing softly into the present, Bringing shining shades of those treasured moments to warm a weary heart. Hopes, dreams, joy, anticipation, the promise of an unbounded future. These are the gifts of memory’s gentle touch.

Where

Where is the encouragement for those who have stretched out yearning hands to touch the shining stars only to fail and fall dejected back to the darkened earth? Where the stamina to rise up, forgetting failures and missed opportunities? The will to strive once again, acting with courage to reach one’s dreams. Where is the excitement and energy that comes from learning new ideas? The endless search to grasp the novel, seeking truth for its own sake. Where is the simple faith that knows that all creation is good? Which believes in the ultimate purpose of life, and the triumph of goodness and perfection? Where is hope that love is true, real, and lasting, coming to all hearts seeking it earnestly? The answers to all these questions and so many more are simple. Their location lies close by, resting right there in your heart. Placed there by God, when you drew your first breath of the life He

gave you. Waiting to refresh and affirm, when you have need.

Shadows

Shadows slender and dark come silently, stealing over rock and hedge. Pools of liquid darkness, deep and soft, defining edge and line. Shadows giving substance by contrast and absence of light. Mystery and magic, sinister shapes that excite the mind. Sliding across spaces, tinged by the silver sheen of a waning moon. Shall I stand in silence till these shades overtake me? Shall I rather wait no longer in this place? Only the dark of night and the setting moon will know the outcome As from the shadows I may flee before the moon has set.

Promises

I

Promises so bright and boundless once were ours to grasp and hold. Deeds great and bold, vistas unbounded, lie there just beyond our eager grasp. Ever they seemed the nearer, yet still receding at day’s end. Where have such bright hopes fled? Fled and gone, they become only faded dreams and memories. Traces of that which almost was, or what could never truly be. Promises become dim, shifting phantoms. Potential spent on lowly objectives. Compromises made, errands run. All have now dust become.

II

Such is the course of human life. Conceived in the brightest glow, for a brief time life shines ever so

brightly, only to dim and fade as the years exact their unceasing toll. Disappointment ever mounting till at last even the most shining bright eyes become dulled and sullen. Hopes stretched thin to the breaking point. What promise yet remains for those still living, in the count of mounting years? Perhaps only the hope for endless sleep, dark and deep. Sleep, where no dreams there are to awaken long-dead hopes. Fond remembrances of bright words and clever thoughts wait there. Recollections of shining eyes and eager minds, which so pleased some we knew. Weep not overmuch for all those promises that are gone and remain unmet. For these were sown upon the winds of time. They are gone now to seek other souls. Wherever men have life newfound there shall promise yet bloom anew. For it is there that they may yet become truth.

Bits of Glass

Bits of glass scattered wide. A fine dust, upon a sun-bleached street. Now and again a glint of light reflects a point of singular brilliance. A gleam, giving the faintest hints of what once may have shined clear and sharp, with wondrous hue. Form long gone and scattered, what purpose or promise it once held is now vanished. Cast into the trash bin of forsaken disuse. Bit of glass broken and ground into crystalline dust by countless wheels and tramping feet. What was once whole can never be remade. What was cast away with no heed may not be reclaimed. Bits of glass, whose shine serves to remind the watchful eye of what was once and is no more. Who can undo waste and ruin? Who cares for such things any longer? Discarded and fading, they remain unseen and unknown by most that , uncaring, by.

Conversations

Voices in the silence conversing with no sound. Reflections and recitations with no one else around. Confusion, consolation, frustration, waning hope. Conclusions, never final, morality, and mirth. Couplets in the silence, paragraphs in verse. Parables in evening, mathematics cast in smoke. Anagrams at vespers, puzzles cast at dawn. Ideas ever seething in a dark unsettled soul. Angels that may whisper God’s own bespoken word. Life and its dilemmas, fluxes in the earth. Vapor and stern substance, truth all engulfed in smoke. All cast forth in silence as the hours slide along. Madness, affirmation, consternation, and pale hope. Whispered in the silence by a lonely aching soul.

Nothing Changes

Life is oh, so weary, it whirls us all around. Events seem ever different, yet ever are the same. Names and locations, conversations, and most prose. All of these recycled to remaining ever unheard. Penance and much patience, effort and vain hope Cast about at random, revolving in the smoke. Wisdom and great folly, failure and blinded faith. All of these connected like knots upon a rope. Ever each so very different, yet always still the same. Issues are abounding, yet nothing is constrained. Ever in wide circles, whirling in my weary brain. Nothing is discarded; in cycles they remain. Life remains a circuit, an orbit we retrace. Until we are exhausted and simply quit the race.

Quiet Time

I

When daylight fades, calling forth the edge of night, The flight of hours seems to pause, and quiet time steals upon me. Sitting alone, only the soft mutterings of fading memories and day dreams ebb up within me. Memories recalling how much has gone before, still abiding in the silken shadows within my silent heart. Faint, but still able to stir me, how wonderful and brilliant are these cachets of color and emotions. Brief flashes seen in the light of a fading day, granting sweet respite from all I am.

II

Sounds sit soft upon my mind, hardly heard. Life suspended as upon a web of slender threads. Life awaiting the coming darkness and the soft light of the rising moon.

The twilight purple fades to black. The respite of quiet time slowly recedes, as the press of the hour’s mad flight starts anew. The gentle murmur of my mind fades, replaced by the rising buzz of the worries, fears, and disappointments. This is the heavy baggage of every living soul. Still a small trace of quiet time abides deep within me, Giving assurance that hope remains, while memory and dreams yet live. Respite waits to come again as quiet time draws near.

Where Is Tomorrow?

I

Where is tomorrow? Is it really just a point in space that lies just beyond the racing rim of the ever-turning earth? I think not. If not a place, is it rather a convention of clocks and calendars? Or is it rather more, perhaps, a state of mind? Surely tomorrow is more than just the start of another day. For it signifies all we may have held as either hope or fear. A signpost as we journey through a night of somber moods and wheeling dreams.

II

For some tomorrow is the place where dreams become reality. Fears melt away like frost upon a pane chased by the sunlight’s brilliant glare.

For others, tomorrow is the very place they seek to avoid. For it signifies hopes that they know can never be, bringing only dreadful fears. Fears becoming all too real.

III

Tomorrow: The word is pregnant with meaning, A meaning that stirs the soul. It is in every sense the hoped-for continuity of every life. A chance at redemption, perhaps more. Tomorrow is the state of mind that lies just beyond the days we live. The boundary marking the portal to what lies beyond our skein of days.

Common Denominator

I

What singular factor is common to every life? What moment awaits every soul despite a lifelong quest to avoid its final touch? Still we fear to even utter its name, lest that utterance should hasten its dark approach. Oh, how we fear to cast aside the struggles and joys of our days. To lie down still and ever-silent, in a state of simple nothingness. How the mind sifts and slides, to avoid the blank darkness of endless black.

II

The greatest minds and most noble of souls united with the lowly. A common denominator ing all in this terminating line. A boundary dividing the quick from the dead. How strange is this conjunction, building an unbridgeable chasm;

A chasm separating those we know from those we can no longer know. The calculus of human endeavor is sharply bounded, converges in that single limit. In that instant all are equal, in a state of utter nullity.

III

Yet there are those who dream and recall. In such moments the chasm is spanned, the darkness pierced. Those who were once, are alive again, if only in the vaguest mists of recollection. Thoughts uniting and conquering the most common of all denominators. That which made us lingers as in some fading song. Silent and echoing still in some living minds. Thus, that which made each life so bright a thing is not wholly lost while memory endures. Thus are hope and striving kept vital, life’s justification realized. There is nothing common, nor final, in the recall of a life well lived and in kindness fondly recalled.

Snow Starting

I

As the days of bleak November wane and die away, The winds are cold and bitter as they chill my soul today. The sky is gray and heavy, the clouds so deeply banked; Clouds that strive to hold back the snows in leaden arms. The city, cold and huddled, lies sleeping near the dawn, Helplessly awaiting the coming fury of the storm.

II

The flakes begin to flutter as silently they fall. Like lace upon the windows they tumble as they twirl. With such a silent prelude, the storm begins its strong assault, And streets devoid of traffic await their cloak of starkest snow.

III

I stand in frank amazement, watching autos cloaked in white, Asleep in snowy blankets, hood-top deep and locked in ice. With deep reflection, I salute the storm’s great might, For winter works his magic, turning soot to pristine white. Silent expectations becomes excitement for this day. When snow falls on our city, it chases winter’s gray.

Lament Ye Well

Lament ye well, when another yields up his life. Feel the aching loss of thoughts and dreams flood into the boundless void. Such things are vanished and are no more. They are as if they never were, for nothing of such abides. Mourn the lover, whose empty arms embrace the cruel and darkened night. Neither comion nor surcease of sorrow ever fills the yearning heart. Hear the numbing silence left when a beloved no longer calls a name, When only cruel silence fills such waking hours. Too soon, we all endure this numbing loss, a loss that time alone allays or ends. Ends when, at length, we are no more. So lament we all, when yet another leaves this life. Never shall we see their like again.

My Sisters

A man is counted thrice-blessed if he is given three sisters such as mine. Sisters mine, through the gifts of my loving wife. Sisters mine, to love and to share. Sisters, giving me the joy of family, which is among God’s greatest gifts. Each sister is unique and apart, yet one in loving hearts. Their constant thoughts and prayers are ever near me. They are close, through my life’s course, be they fair or foul. Though miles keep us parted, ever I feel the gentle touch of their loving thoughts and prayers. In all aspects of my life, the solace and joy of their love is ever strong and lasting, never failing to warm my heart. Thus I am never alone and apart; their spirits and mine are ever ed in a circle of lasting love. When e’er I think of the greatest gifts a man may be given, I never fail to count my sisters, second only to the glorious gift of my loving wife. Through these gifts have I become the richest of men, enriched beyond all bounds.

The love of a beloved wife and three special sisters; these are mine to treasure and hold close to my heart, for as long as I shall live. Love makes my life complete.

Beloved

Beloved thou art, and with this word I praise thee. Soul of my better self, thou art the joy of truest love. Not in darkest days or deepest dread, can our souls be long besieged. For in our love no shadow long abides. Without reserve, I pledge myself to cherish thee. Souls entwined, we are forever ed. When wisdom comes and touches waiting hearts, they learn that love alone has lasting worth. Beloved mine, no measure tells how much I treasure thee. Let my eyes tell thee of my deepest love. Each ing day is too short a time to hold your hand in mine. I know that time does ever fly, yet even in its flight, I feel the power of your love. I know that love alone abides.

Infinity

Glass to glass, images of images, in an unending array. Images in lockstep marching off to a distant vague point. Sets of images lost in an indiscernible progression deep in the glass. Here at last is the infinite, yet its very existence defies eye and mind. Existent, and yet not so. Images in whose essence show a perfect conception, A conception only grasped as a whole. Beyond synthesis, at the limit of rationality. Beyond any known limit, the concept appears. An article of faith’s perfection, everything and nothing in an instance. Waiting in silence, held captive in these glasses. There for inspection at a whim, and ever evading their truest essence.

Into Long Silence

I

When I shed my mortal coil, into silence long shall I go. Into endless depths, I shall descend. What shall I fear? In total silence dwells only nothingness. Neither thoughts nor dreams abide. Neither dark nor light, nor day or night. Nor any count of hours to disturb my sleep. I return from whence I came. Out of nothingness, into nothingness. An act of perfect balance. Thus is creation constrained, from nothingness to nothingness. A transient flux in violent ebb and flow. So brief its light that scarce a soul gives it proper note. What shall mark my sojourn here? Perhaps only some foolish words, of small import and little note. What is that?

Have not the greatest or the least of men done as well? Dark to dark and dust to dust. This is man, nothing more. A burst of color, quickly gone and faded. Gone, before scarce the world has known it for even a moment.

Songs

Whose songs are these that fill this space? From whence have they come? I know them not. From my hand they have spilled across these pages. No, I am but a scribe, recording what I hear. If perchance these songs please your heart, thank not your humble servant. Give thanks instead, to those who has spoken such sweet songs in my ear. For I attest they are not mine, nor do I dare lay claim to such an honor. Spirits exist who call my listening soul. I write to give these spirits such voice as my humble hand may give, Still, I fear, not half so well as the verses that sing silently within my mind. Few are they who hear these voices. Voices that sweetly sing such songs. Mortal are as mortal as must be, and angels are not men.

Yet bending low, such spirits sing, though faintly, their songs. Pen and ink are such feeble tools to sing the angel’s songs. One does but try.

The Spirit

Out of nothingness, the spirit comes forth in proper time. Into formless dust of earth shall our bones finally descend. Of our spirit, that alone ever abides. God hath breathed his life into its formation, freeing it for God’s own purposes. Like to God, our spirit is timeless. When thy spirit flies its confinement, shall the of its deeds be spoken before its maker? Of its judgment, shall it be found worthy or wanting of the gift of life? If worthy, what joys shall the spirit have in timeless measure? If wanting, endless sadness at the waste of what could have been and yet was not. While time remains, seek for the light. The light that makes of life a wondrous gift. Follow this glow unto its farthest realms. Living life to the fullest in each moment, for this were we made. Doubt not that such a life shall enrich any we may meet. Such actions are of the light, and the dark abhors them.

Valuation

What can anyone say of the sum of their years? For wisdom fades to endless silence. Brilliance to enduring darkness. Benevolence to dull neglect. Visions and dreams to somber gray. What is understanding and cunning in the face of failing days? In the end, the best, the brightest, and the least, are swept away. Existence distilled into a few scattered lines or perhaps a scant phrase. Recalled by few, they are destined soon to fade. Thus all alike are coned; the infinite s the null. The complex finds the simple. The principled s the scoundrel. All are thus swept away. Swallowed whole, with scare a whisper. No matter the span of years, or the energy expended to live, the end is ever the same. In silence all learn at last that only life, in its simplest moments,

has worth. Only beauty should be treasured. Only love sustains the self. Out of nothingness comes existence. Into nothingness must existence return. As a pair of bounding brackets enfolding a brief moment. Hardly worthy of note. Perhaps an epitaph: “Here lies one who lived as he could. Counting each day as the gift it was. A present to be enjoyed, to bid sweet farewell as night enfolded day. Dreams of light, to ever-growing shadows, soon to be banished. Speech to silence, soft and deep. Scribbled lines to empty pages. Living just to live, as best one could.”

Remnants

A collection of verses about people places, holidays, topics largely biographical. A few are whimsical

A piece of this and a swatch of that. The remnants of what has been, sewn into some raiment. Scraps and snippets to be considered and perused before being consigned to the dustbin. Here are they for your consideration.

The Wraith

I

Through the days I slip so slyly no shadow mine to cast, Without a trace of substance like a mist upon a glass. About and disembodied, I lurk about your doors To slip into your household from a world that I deplore. A breeze upon the evening, I tug lightly at your sleeve. I have no voice to call you, though once I spoke as thee. In pain I view the living; how I long to share their fate. I’m filled with gnawing hunger, though no food is mine to taste. No one ever sees me nor knows I’ve crossed their path. I’m just a twist of nothing for, in truth, I’m called a wraith.

II

A creature of the shadows, I drift through endless days. I roam among the living, a spirit forced to stay To lurk among the shadows, in obscurity to wait,

To endure such wearing cycles and endure unending pain. A sound below a whisper, a soul by God restrained. I’m more than just a legend. I simply am a wraith.

A Stranger

I

I chanced upon a stranger standing solemn in the corn. He seemed to be so lonely that I felt obliged to call. “Sir, I bid thee greetings. How do you fare this day? What has been your fortune? Why do you stand this way?” To me he made no answer, and standing as he stood, He seemed transfixed and staring and in a somber mood. Again I tried to rouse him and get him to converse, Still he made no gestures nor ever once he spoke.

II

I started into his visage; his face was brown and sere. His eyes seemed dull and lifeless; they reflected little cheer. I thought I saw a glimmer of a smile sweep across his face.

Yet still he made no movement nor give answer to my words.

III

I left him to his silence, the surveyor of this field. I know I’ll never greet him when the trees are dressed in leaves. A man of little commerce, he sees no need for words. He stands in stony silence, watching only for the birds.

The Rag Man

I

The streets are wet and dingy, my clothes are worn and stained. My mouth seems filled with ashes, my being torn by pain. Like a leaf before a chill wind, I drift from place to place. I cannot ever tarry, though in truth I’ve longed to stay. I slip among the masses like a shadow in their wakes. A man they hardly notice—just a ragman in his coat.

II

Many never see me, though I them on their ways. Like a plague, they dare not see me, they shut me from their sight. I know they feel no pity for I see nothing in their face. I live in quiet anguish with the rags upon my back. I know I’ve reached a nadir so deep I can’t climb back. So low I now have fallen, so far I’ve lost my way.

III

I live in desperation as I face each empty day. I feel no touch of kindness; I’m like a wraith, a ghost of gray. A shadow of a human—how I wish I’d melt away. A man of rags and patches, a man without a name. I dwell amid the shadows in the depths of silent shame.

The Player

I

The stands are steeped in shadows, a red glow tints the sky. The contest long decided, the teams have played with pride. The quiet of the evening, as it steals into night, Belies the crowd-filled clamor that shook this once-thronged site. With grit alone to aid him, he faced the young men’s scorn. His eyes still saw the fastballs as they left the hurler’s paw. Still, he failed to use his instincts, to smack that streaking ball. He burned inside with anger as he strides back from the plate. Jeering calls cascaded for the hit he failed to make. No more the mighty slugger, smacking homers in the stands; He’s become a fading legend, a mere shadow of once was.

II

Alone before his locker, he packs a timeworn case; A mitt, brown and supple, and a rumpled, dusty cap.

He lays them in their corners, and they seem to find their place. His locker holds a photo, a girl he left behind. Its colors long have faded, but her beauty still does shine. With slow and stilted movements, he takes the photo down. He puts it in his pocket and makes a wistful sigh.

III

So soon the years have stolen and left him old and worn. His shining youth has faded; he is stooped in midlife’s stance. He rises in the darkness to tread the quiet halls, Surrounded by the odor of sour beer and cigar smoke. The chill of coming winter lies heavy on his bones As he lugs that old worn suitcase in the damp of coming night.

IV

No more the smell of springtime will call him to the game. He must spend his days in dreaming of the days he tasted fame. Perhaps in some old attic, a boy will spy his face Emblazoned on some cardboard as he kneeled beside home plate.

Who is the old-time player in a cap of faded black? Was he a baseball legend? Is he in the Hall of Fame? Or just some old-time fellow who played the nation’s game.

What is a Son?

What is a son? Is he only the babe, the boy, now the man that keeps your name? A name he carries forth with pride into a watching world. What is a son? Is he the playmate of your dreams, come to romp about with you? To stay for just a small while and then become a worthy man? What is a son? Is he not the focus of all your fondest dreams? Dreams that were fulfilled as he spun the story of his own life. What is a son? Is he all that is good and worthwhile in you? Becoming the man you wished you could be but never were. What is a son? Is he the man who alone knows your fondest dreams and holds them safe within his heart? What is a son? Is he not the man that brings you his own dear children, that you may love them as you loved him?

Indeed a worthy son is all of these, and so much more. For such a son is that constant ray of light that keeps a father’s spirit renewed. The person who gives assurance that the world is a better place because you, my son, are here.

For Michael on his fortieth birthday, February 12, 2005.

Ozamunda

I

Ozamunda is your name, oh fabled god of yore. The sands of time have long run past since priests have you adored. Your ancient home is empty now; it’s just a pile of ruins. Beneath a moon that shines blood red, your altar stands alone. Alone and dark, a night birds’ home; they come at times to nest. Your image leans amid the stones with birds upon your crest. Your winged head, though leering here, fills no hearts with fear. For none now come to seek your leave, nor offer you their gifts.

II

Oh winged Ozamunda, your day at last is done. Your temple shed its glory, and winds now etch your stones. No man now seeks your counsel as you stand at last alone. An aged, weathered icon, a stone without a soul.

A Candle

I

A single burning candle emits its warming glow. It gutters in the shadows that seem to shift and flow. A point of simple radiance, a contemplative sight. It calms me so to view it, amid the press of black. A flame of blue and yellow consumes your pristine wax. The candle sheds its substance in a sacrifice of light.

II

How slowly marched the hours the candle’s flame defied. Then without a single warning, the source of light declines. The yellow fades to orange, the orange trails to red; Then with scare a whisper, the dancing flame is dead. The blackness presses on me as it strives to stifle life. Vanquished is the candle that warded off the night.

Stonehenge

On the rolling downs you stand erect, a circle made of stones. Monoliths, they call them; they rise like giants’ bones. How long have you been standing upon this lonely spot? A gateway to the heavens, to mysteries men forgot. The ancient Celtics built you by dragging stones for miles. With your lintels and broad columns, by your structure I’m beguiled. The druids of the people called you the Giant’s Dance As they held their celebrations and sang their mystics chants. The marking of the solstice, The path to blazing stars; To a modern mind of science, these thoughts seem too bizarre. So, with iration, I stand in simple awe. In the shadows of the ancients, before the Giant’s Door.

The Peddler

I

A peddler walks along his path upon a country lane, His goods piled high upon his back, he struggles on his way. Beneath an old and sagging cap there lurks a brilliant smile. The twinkle of his laughing eyes belies his shabby style. His voice sounds clear and strong among the winding streets. Calling out in sing-song verse the wares he sells this day. “Pots and pans, threads and wool, Ribbons for your hair, Needles keen, scissors sharp, Shawls and silken scarves, Petty things, and notions too, Sweets for you to share. Come and see, oh come see all my worthy wares.”

II

Many come to see his goods, to buy some simple things. He nods and smiles, giving thanks for the purchases they make. Grimy coins fill his purse for the wares he has sold today. Soon he waves and carries on, visiting other ways. Whence he comes and where he goes not a soul can say.

III

Perhaps someday you will hear his call as he comes around your bend. Calling loud, so all can hear the goods he has to vend. Bringing joy and wonders small to brighten dreary days.

The Memories of Christmas

I

The plans for the trip. The calls on the phone. The ache to see family. The welcome to home. The hugs and the kisses. The laughs and the smiles. These are the memories of Christmas.

II

The goodness of Grand Ma. Grand Pa’s big smile. The smell of the fire. The food on the stove. The family at dinner. The hanging of wreaths and the lights on the tree.

These are the memories of Christmas.

III

The sigh of the wind as it sneaks ‘round the eaves. The silence of snow as it rests on the leaves. The glitter of frost as it lights up the trees. These are the memories of Christmas.

IV

The buzz of the days as the family prepares. The wrapping of presents. The decking of trees. The toasting with nogs and the gingerbread treats. These are the memories of Christmas.

V

The warmth of the kitchen. The clanging of pans.

The chatter of children. The clapping of hands. The singing of carols. The praying of grace. These are the memories of Christmas.

VI

The halo of lights blinking onto the snow. The waiting for Santa. The joy-filled hellos. The towers of presents. The Christmas Eve feast. These are the memories of Christmas.

VII

The packing of boxes and cases all tight. The storing of clothes and the long, final night. The tearful goodbyes as we rush for the plane. These are the memories of Christmas.

VIII

Though some that we love have ed from our sight, And we no more gather on Christmas Eve night, Still will our hearts ever be bright, As we cherish the memories of Christmas.

Grandma’s Christmas Tree

I

It stood there in her window, aglow with welcome lights. Shining in darkness, it made a wondrous sight. A beacon softly burning, it called us all to home. Home to share our Christmas, by the warming hearth of home.

II

Wrapped in golden garland from its base up to its crest, Its boughs all draped in tinsel and orbs of fading glass. Beneath its boughs piled presents, in such a grand display— The result of endless shopping that started late in May. Boxes, bags, beribboned, awaiting the tugs of little hands.

III

How her house filled with excitement as the little ones arrived.

They ran to see her wondrous tree, with wonder-filled wide eyes. Off they ran to Grandma, to climb into her arms; To share a kiss, a great big hug, all glad to hear her say: “Santa Claus is coming, so be good and run and play.”

IV

How her tree made us so joyful as we gathered near its boughs. Singing songs so joyful, within the arms of love. Never were moments brighter than those around her Christmas tree, While in the glance of loving eyes, we gathered ‘round her knees.

V

When e’er I think of magic, that truly ever was. I’m reminded of our mother and her wondrous Christmas tree, The love that warmed her children on those blessed nights In the bosom of our family, gathered ‘round her lovely tree.

A Fifties’ Rangers Game

I

I rush from home to catch the train; the subway’s down the block. I have a seat behind the goal; the game’s at eight o’clock. A trip I’ve taken many times, it goes without a hitch. I’ll have to hike up 49th, despite the winter’s pitch.

II

The Garden’s marquee lights ablaze, lettering proclaims: “Hockey Played Here Tonight: A New York Rangers Game.” Through the lobby I proceed down an old familiar track. To the wooden seats I rush; it’s seven-thirty flat. An air of real excitement fills the aged, smoky place. The blue team soon hits the ice as fans call out advice.

III

Handy Andy takes a turn; he’s poetry and grace. Lou the Leaper skates around, a grimace on his face. To the nets the Gumper goes to make a few quick blocks. All his teammates take their turns, flipping practice shots. Warm-ups halt, the ice is cleared, The lights are turned down low. The crowd files in, the tension mounts: It’s time to start the show.

IV

It’s eight o’clock, the clock resets; it shows it’s period one. Twenty minutes soon to play; the score is none to none. The PA hums, the lineups called, some changes are announced. Some Rangers gone, others scratched, no one knows where some have gone; to me it’s all the same. The Blue-Shirt Rangers take the ice; the crowd arises as a man. The organ sounds to play the song; our anthem now resounds.

V

The anthem done, a roar goes up; the teams to center skate.

The rival lines take to their spots as the ref his signals makes. The puck is dropped, the sticks go clack, now the battle’s ed. A feisty Black Hawk steals the puck and toward me starts to dart. The Rangers’ end is smooth as glass; it’s scarcely had a mark. Over the blue line the Black Hawks pour; the Rangers’ defensemen backward skate. A nifty that can’t be blocked is dropped off in the slot. The racing center, eyes ablaze, let’s fly a fierce wrist shot. The Gumper splits, the rubber lands where all the cameras wait. A roar of pleasure rocks the crowd: a face-off in our end. The left defense takes the slot and hopes this press to end.

VI

The goal judge standing at my right, his foot upon a chair; Standing tensed to hear the whistle sound, his eyes glued in a stare. The puck is dropped, bodies bump; the puck sails to the point. Every Ranger strains to clear as pressure starts to mount. A battle royal soon ensues, before the Gumper’s crease. Lou the Leaper checks and grinds, dumps Makita on his seat. Pierre Pilote a slap shot takes, from off the deep-left point.

In the net the rubber flies; groaning fills the t. The score now stands one to zip, the game is still in hand. All the faithful’s stomping feet incite the Ranger band. Bathgate’s top line takes the ice, the issue to contest; Ingerfield and Prentice, too, jockey on their skates. The puck is dropped; the Rangers win and fly down center ice. The Black Hawk line falls right back to clamp them in a vise. Handy Andy slaps a shot, Glen Hall does the split. A carom off the ringing pipe jumps right to Deano’s stick. Into the net, the rubber flies; I see the red lights glare. The score is tied one to one; gee, this is something rare! Back and forth the contest flows; the score still stands at one. There I sit chewing nails; boy, this sure is fun.

VII

The score still stands at one apiece with seven minutes left to play. Nesterkeno grabs a Ranger’s shirt; it’s holding, clear as day! The crowd erupts and starts to chant; a power play on tap. Handy Andy and Camille the Eel come on to take their swipes. The puck is dropped, and to the point it takes a whizzing trip.

To the crease the Eel quick skates, there to try a tip. The Leaper shoots, the Eel slips free and tips the shot right down. The cords bulge wide, the light glows red; the Garden rocks with sound. It’s two to one, what a game! Can the Rangers get a win? The Gumper shouts, “Check these guys,” above the rising din. The clock winds down in dragging ticks—my God, the Blue Shirts win!

IX

A Hockey News, a train ride home, to savor this winning game. I’ve planned; my ticket’s bought—next week the Leafs are in. I’ll be back to MSG; I’ll pray the Rangers win.

Parts

Hands for holding: Giving comfort and warming assurance in their familiar grasp. Arms to clasp us tightly: Enfolding us and easing us through troubled times, sharing joy. Eyes: That see brilliance and shadows, giving mind its point of view. Ears: Sending music and words of comfort to our souls; filling soundless voids with sibilant sounds. Voices: To give the means to share feelings, duty, and truth with others. Hearts: For soaring ion, searing pain, and numbing sorrow. Stars: That steer each life on its paths. Souls: To give life its essence; uniting each to the other and to our beloved maker.

So simple to parse: parts perfectly made and matched. United, making each human life much more than the sum of what it seems to be. Binding separate spirits into unions of perfect purpose; deeply felt love and comion. Parts—surely much more than they seem.

The Subway at Night

I

Down the darkened tunnel silently I stare To spy a red light glinting, on rails burnished by their wear. The platform all round me is dim in ashen gray. The walls are smoke-stained yellow; they’ve seen much better days. Awash in trash and litter, weak lights glare off the walls, While green gothic letters hide in dingy, hidden strokes.

II

Soon thunder fills the tunnel as stirring litter flies. A fast express goes speeding while here I grimly pace. I grow so very weary waiting for my tardy local train; It never seems to come here, and the seconds drag and waste.

III

The rails begin their humming, a sound that’s quite distinct. A local train is coming; it’s around that turn, I think. In the darkened tunnel I think I see two lights. One of red and one of white—it’s my train all right! Impatience soon rewarded; I’ll be getting home tonight. The train streaks into the station to a shrieking, sliding stop. The doors slide open swiftly; I rush in to find my spot.

IV

The seats are brown and dirty, there’re made of cracking straw. They give but little comfort; still, I sit to ease my strain. Lit in bulbs aged yellow, a light too dim and faint, I start at once to napping for it’s much too dark to stare. Soon the darkened tunnel is alight with leaping sparks. As wheels of steel, protesting, slant the cars with jolting jars. The motion in its skidding breeds the ozone-smelling air. It seems to make me sleepy; soon I’m nodding in my place.

V

In a half-felt leaning stupor, I count the jolting stops. Soon my count is ended, for I’ve reached my station stop. I shuffle from the confines of the dank and dingy car, Awakened from my stupor by a blast of frigid air. My footsteps upon the platform are muffled by its wood. I clamber down a stairway caked with gum and soot To exit into shadows cast by the streetlight’s amber glare. I walk in numbing silence till I reach my home at last. Happy I’m not riding on that grimy subway train.

The Helmsman

I

Upon the deck, he stands erect, eyes fixed upon the sea. Locked in the grasp of gnarly hands, he holds the straining helm. He it is who keeps this ship upon her charted course. Alone he listened to the winds, sneaking ‘round the straining sails, Whistling tunes among the lines, lashing spray upon his cheeks.

II

The rolling sea of angry gray longs to claim all sailing souls. Silently he makes no step nor utters any words. His the lot to stand his watch, eyes fixed upon the sea. He steers a course deeply etched within his whirling mind. No charts there are within his view, yet he knows each curving arc. All aboard place their trust into his knotted hands. For well they know that he alone has the skill to bring them safely home.

III

When in port, a welcome berth at last is safely found, A happy crew deserts these decks, eager for their homes. The aged helmsman sets loose his grip, seeking solace in some sleep. Yet even in his land-bound dreams, he feels the cadenced roll. Pitching seas and rising winds lead him ever on his way. Never free to lose his grip, lest the sea should steal his soul.

Thoughts Alone

I pose for you a riddle, a thought obscure in part. Can any single mortal, by dint of thought alone, Deflect the course of history or think a novel thought? In silent conversations, I seek within myself To find some spark of brilliance to light my darkened soul, To know within some instant and see in some bright flash. That thought alone has substance, and they alone may last Beyond the reach of aging, words penned upon a leaf. Calling each to mind softly: Read! Dream! Feel! Know! Live.

Memories

I

As my days begin to shorten and the air takes on a chill, My mind assumes a pension to wander where it will. From out of dust-filled corners scenes arise and form Of places well ed and connections now long torn. Of words and winds and music, Of landscapes winds and storms, Of skies of blue and yellow, brightly streaking at the dawn. Of cares and sounds and odors, and rain-filled leaden skies, Of feelings, fears, and longing, of chilly winter nights, Of stars of argent beauty, and blazing sun-drenched skies. Of street signs unfamiliar, and place names hard to say, Of days of scarcely speaking, and winter days of gray, Of days that were for counting, and trips that brought me home.

II

So here among these snippets, suffused in hazy light, I live again some moments from a still-receding life. How strange to see these moments and know they once were true— Yet they have no substance, save in the thoughts I knew.

Roads

I

Lines upon a map, ing places familiar and strange, Near and far. A tapestry of fine threads of red and black and blue, upon a muchfolded yellowed page. Yet, in broader scale, binding lives and times into a fabric, a design seldom seen. Wide and straight, bleached starkest white by a blazing sun; they draw us on charted courses, Taking us where they will. What vistas we see along their course, by accident or design, are displayed for ing eyes and hands that seldom meet.

II

Here an aged oak stands proudly amid a sea of tawny reeds along a sluggish stream.

An aged oak, spreading its roots, holding back a brackish fen. A fen, seeking to drown the tree, beneath a sagging bank. Silently it seems to call out: “Will no one pause to give me help? Must I labor here for endless years, in silent struggle, till my strength is no more? To lie, at last beneath a brackish pool. Where are those who once came to sit and laugh in the cooling shade of my spreading arms? Where are those who stood dry and safe from chilling rains beneath my boughs? Will none of these now come to offer aid to one who gave much, while asking for so little in return?” How quickly we by; still the tree stands waiting for help that never comes.

III

There a church, worn by wind and weather, stands lonely amid a barren yard. A church waiting, silently, for cars that never stop.

Clapboard sides, once shining white and fair in the summer sun are now stained dingy gray, covered in swirling arcs of chipping paint, and spreading dirty cracks. Windows stark and black stare blankly back at ersby who wonder who you were. Abandoned and alone, sagging and slumping; where are those who once flocked to your open doors?

IV

A small store stands open and strangely alive. A store alone in a sea of boarded windows and vacant shops. The last survivor of a creeping blight that withered all away. Where, I wonder, have all these patrons gone? Have they left the fields and farms for distant cities? Gone chasing dreams that never were? When at last this single shop opens no more, who will mourn the ing of this age?

V

I see the sun glinting brightly off the tin roof of a barn. A line of wash sailing silently in the breeze reminds me that life still clings to the banks of this concrete river. How long, I wonder, have people rocking on their porches watched cars go speeding by? Lives that , almost touching and never meeting. Perhaps, in days gone by, this was not so. Yet now we travel ever on our own errands, self-absorbed. Ever searching, we avoid others, lest we learn to care for those we know not. Isolated and alone, we have not the courage to reach out, lest we awaken from our self-entrancement.

VI

Ribbons of concrete or snaking lines of tar and shale. Rutted tracks, or marvels of engineering skill, or fading remnants of long-ed days. Lines on maps, and yet more. Paths connecting lives to lives, scenes to eyes. Roads showing dreams and hopes once real.

Bright spots, things that once were alive and new, vistas grand, and blighted city streets: All exist in scenes your lines now bring to my recall.

VII

One can but wonder, shall I see again these scenes your lines recall? Can I retrace these paths upon this faded map? Can I see what once I saw with bright and eager eyes? Things must change and so, indeed, must mortal men. In truth, I fear I cannot retrace these fading lines. All is flux, and nothing stands alone unchanged. In dreams, these scenes will live on till I must fade. Then, maps and lines will live on without me.

Echoes of Silence

The silence of echoes roars in my ears. I am at a loss to dispel the sounds. These echoes of silence calling forth deep sorrows. So at last I shall become deaf and lost in these sounds. Dumb and befuddled amid the endless hiss. Even as these echoes fade away, darkest silence, at last, becomes my master. When heart and mind are come at last to deepest silence, dreams cannot abide. In the echoes of such silence, life simply slips away and is no more.

Grand Ma

I

Grand Ma has her little ones, the sparks that lights her eyes. In her heart they find the love that she alone can give. In her smile and in her eyes, they find acceptance’s way. How swiftly do they fly to her to soothe their cares away. In her home she has their toys and books held in their favorite nooks, Where all can play with Grand Ma, who listens for their call. The smell of baking cookies or a dance with whirling scarves; Grand Ma has her magic, and she always plays her part.

II

So is it any wonder that her grandkids love to come To visit at their Grand Ma’s, the center of their fun. When it comes to holidays, it’s Grand Ma’s time to shine. She fusses in her kitchen to cook their favorite fares. At her lovely table, her grandtots love to sit.

Surrounded by her kindness, they enjoy each special dish.

III

While heaven made her Grand Ma, an angel here on earth, To Gramps she’s always sweetheart, the gal he loves the most. So grandkids, please that Grand Ma loves you so, She will always teach you and help you as you grow. So when you are all grown up, recall how things once were; Then you’ll treasure Grand Ma, who loved you long ago.

Christmas Time

I

As the days of cold November draw closer to their end And Turkey Day has finished, that special time begins. It’s called the Christmas season, or Advent in the church. A time of preparations amid a surge of joyful hope. The lights begin to sparkle, bedecking rooms in every home. Angels, sleighs, and Santas stand proudly on the lawns. Perhaps a coat of snowflakes may dress the sleeping earth. Now parents grand and normal go quickly to their work, Shopping for the presents that Santa leaves at home. Soon piles of wrapped-up presents are slyly hid away. Excitement keeps a-building with every ing day.

II

Soon trees begin to light up in every eager home. Trees decked with garland and tinsel, softly glowing in the dark,

To await their special moment upon that sacred night. With all the children waiting with delight around the tree, For they know that soon comes Santa, who’ll pile their presents ‘neath the lighted tree.

III

On that special evening, the eve of Christmas day, hearts are filled with gladness, recalling the angel’s song:

On Earth ye all be gladdened. Behold the sacred birth. To you is born a Savior, the promise made of old. Let peace descend upon you, and lift your weary souls. For God has offered mercy, and gives his people, hope.

IV

Soon the feasting starts in earnest ‘round Grand Ma’s festive spread. The children fuss and fidget, eyeing boxes piled near the tree. Then gathered in a circle, a round of carols they all sing. All ing, oh so gladly, despite how badly they may sing.

Soon it’s time for presents, as Grand Ma shares the gifts. Everyone gets a present as the wrapping paper flies. The room is filled with gladness, and love for all abounds.

V

Then on Christmas morning, the children rush right in to see Those extra-special presents from Santa ‘neath their Christmas tree. With shouts and peals of laughter, the silent morn resounds To gladden sleepy parents, who scarce can bear the sound. Too soon, the glow of Christmas fades back to winter gray. And trees and all their glitter are down and stowed away. Yet always there does linger a hope that starts to grow. Christmas time is coming, to bring its special glow.

Mary Ann at Christmas

As Christmas time approaches, she hurries all about As presents and her packages soon fill our crowded house. A tree is soon erected, which stands so straight and tall; Its beauty a mere token of the love she has for all. The cards all are written, in her hand that’s so unique. Our gates are decked in garlands and her lovely, handmade wreaths. Our feast, a well-planned marvel, her cookies have all been baked; She hurries on her errands as a woman on her skates. All is soon accomplished, with never a lone missed step. The signs of this fine season dancing swiftly in her head. Then upon the eve of this most wondrous day, She smiles at all her loved ones, and simply does she say:

The merriest of Christmas, enjoy our blessed feast. I’m grateful just to love you, from the oldest to the least. See gathered all your presents, there is something for you all. Now come sit ‘round my table, and answer to my call. Let’s thank God in His heaven as we gather for our feast.

We’ll open all those presents, after eating our fine meal. So children, please be patient, and sit still in your seats. To all a Merry Christmas, say grace before we eat!

As we bask in all her brightness and enjoy her smile’s sweet glow, We know that she’s our Christmas; she makes the feast to go. She’s our star, so brightly shining, which shines atop our tree. Mostly she’s our angel, our dearest Mary Ann.

Empty Heads

I

Oh how they prattle and wobble about. Heads full of nonsense, what drivel they spout. Never in silence, but ever a squeak, Annoying their neighbors with the gibberish they speak. Discoursing on subjects they not know not in the least, They drown out the discourse of the rational meek. With never a thought of the damage they do, they pollute the air with illiterate goo.

II

If silence is golden, and wisdom is truth, The empty of headed are dross and untruth. For God in His wisdom has strewn them about. The havoc they cause is unbounded, no doubt.

III

Whenever you meet an empty of head, Spurn them with vigor, and depart in great haste. For the din that they make and the harm that they spew Will loosen your reason and make your mood blue.

IV

The empty of head, how they in a mass To prattle the nonsense; they clutter about. There’s comfort in silence, the wisest all say. Whenever you hear them, wisdom would say: Hop on your horse, and gallop away.

The Machines

I

Baboom, babang, how they rumble and clang. How they rattle and drone, never ceasing their sounds. Why, I can’t even think, with the racket they make.

II

They hide in the ceilings, they lurk near my doors, They hush into silence when others explore. They wait in the silence and erupt with a bang, whenever I’m sleepy or lying around. They never get tired or take a day off. These very slick demons, they lurk in my head.

III

Some say I need earplugs to drown out their crime.

To them, I say, rubbish, my TV needs sound. Without due recourse, they rain down with great din; Those machines in my building, I’m sure they we will win. Assaulting my ears as each morning begins.

For Mary Ann on Mother’s Day

I

Almost since your life began, mother’s work has been your fate. Even as a little girl, mother’s helper was your job. With a heart so filled with love, you did each little task with pride. Never failing any chores, though your playmates often called. When at last you were my bride, it came as no great shock that motherhood would make you shine, as sunlight on a lake.

II

With tender love, you gave your all to raise our little ones. Even when they grew to men, your work was never done. You fussed and loved them, these, your loving sons. Nieces, nephews, grandkids and tots, all feel your tender love. They flock to you as to light, to gather ‘round your knees.

III

As your husband, I have seen how lavishly you give your love. Like a well of endless depth, your love keeps pouring forth. Never is one sent away without a loving thought. Though your days are full from dawn to dusk, you never turn anyone away. I shall love you even more for all you give to everyone.

IV

Now Mother’s Day has come again, and with it, some acclaim. How little is such meager note for a woman of such fame. Every day is Mother’s Day in the hearts that you have warmed. Ever will we bless your soul with love that never fails or fades.

V

Mary Ann, my dearest love, you are the center of our lives. Words alone can never say what sings within our hearts. Never can there be another one who we shall honor more, For motherhood is a perfect role for Mary Ann.

Thoughts

Things bright and lucid; shining beads of truth among the daily dross. Maybe they are the sweet remains left by others, long ed by. Lingering sparks of a fire that once burned bright and true. Maybe they are like bright seashells strewn about by a loving God. Images to amuse his children, who wander along the shores of life. Thoughts unique and new, or polished bright by long use. Thoughts the truest treasure of a soul thirsting to know.

Crows

Faces creased like ancient trees, clad in black from toes to knees. Roasting in the searing sun, perched in chairs of polished wood. Nodding napping at their ease, not a word sounds on the breeze. Lost in thoughts like drifting ships, what they think escapes no lips. Like fading lines upon a page or tinted photos browned with age, They to seem to wilt and ebb away. Silent sitting there till days are spent and to God they soon ascend, To a world where goodness rules and suffers not some ing fool. Crows just resting in the sun; simply nodding, they speak to none.

Brooklyn Days

I

Stately oaks and ancient elms lining shady, sleepy streets. Cooling shade from summer’s sun, protecting walks of grayish dun. Sloping lawns of brilliant green guarding homes of brilliant brick. When winter comes to visit there, snow-decked trees stretching to reach vaults of ashen gray. Angled humps to rigid lines seem to wander everywhere. Driving snow turning streets into drifts of mounded white. Streets made new by the sheer delight of children’s play. Surprising beauty found amid streets of trampled snow. Snowmen and icicles shining in the winter sun. The chills of winds are half the fun.

II

Steeples and domes gleaming in the blazing sky; Outward signs of heaven’s hope for many men.

Holy havens guarding streets grand and small, Silent refuges from the daily grind of life. Fading brownstones and huddled tenements filled with life. Homes, the refuge of American dreams. Humble homes brimming with family love, soaring hopes of better days. Sharing times, joyous and sad, often filled with kindly care.

III

Public schools of faded brick, where rows of desks spoke of order and respectful awe. Dreams of learning, reading books bright and new. Lines of letters neatly traced, sums and tables learned by heart. Streets for playing hockey, basketball, stick ball, and running games. Macadam fields, where dodging cars was half the fun. Firecrackers, slingshots, spinning yoyos, and soaring kites; filling days made just for fun. Public parks with flowing fountains, simply there to slake your thirst. Coney Island’s cooling surf, tasty treats that cost a dime.

IV

Clanking trolleys, belching buses, and ancient trains, the byways of my city flights. Subway stations buried deep beneath crowded streets. Dingy places of surprising charm and minstrel tunes. Vending machines of brilliant hues amid crowded newsstands offering diversions for those who stand and wait. Names and numbers in deco style, ignoring the derision of litter and trash beneath the feet of tramping throngs.

V

Streets with names and numbers, often new and strange. Places to see and to know where vistas ended and other paths wended away. Bicycle rides far beyond my tramping feet; miles to ride to see new vistas along my way. Candy stores where treasures wait for those with coins to spend.

VI

Dodger dreams dashed by pinstripe might, though hope ever abided in faithful fans. Hopes of glory won at last—and fled away with a team gone out west. Ranger games at MSG; wins were few, though cherished in their day. The Stanley Cup, the Holy Grail; a silver prize ever beyond our grasp.

VII

High school days filled with dreams of unbounded fame. Tests and exams; trampled hopes circumscribing future life. Street corners filled with singing groups, laughing guys ignoring what lay ahead. College bound: dreams renewed and hopes reborn. Classes crammed with tension, rivals abounding to claim the prize. Endless nights with books, eyes grown dull by lack of sleep. Silent struggles to win those vaunted grades. Hopes to succeed, with failure a path not to dare to tread. Exams and finals looming, barriers to scramble over. Pounding pulse as I read and wrote in exam booklets amid the second’s flight. Graduation won, and Brooklyn left far behind.

Yet in life, Brooklyn remains the place where dreams were first born.

VIII

Beauty sought and knowledge gained, despite a heavy cost. Faith ingrained, with dreams of love within my heart. Brooklyn dreams, ever fresh despite the years. Dreams growing ever greater than in truth they ever were.

Dreams

Dreams are a major fascination in my life. Here is a collection of poems about the nature of dreams, my specific dreams, places, and things I’ve seen—sleeping or awake.

Shapes and notions come stealing unbidden into a sleeping mind. Images and notions surreal, fantastic, false or true, perhaps prosaic, painted on a canvas, stretched tightly over sightless eyes, straining to see and know. What purpose or plan is played out by such phantoms? Only the silence knows, saying not.

Dreams

From whence come you, who bring such scenes to sightless eyes? Whether true and real, or just a random jumble, you go fleeting across the mind in times and spaces unknown. Emotions, hopes, dreams, fears, or conflicts, seeking resolution or waiting only for a fleeting taste of life Who can say? Flickering in endless flights through the dark of night. Going nowhere, existing only in the unreality of mind, they are my nightly show. Helpless to set subject or course, what you show is a puzzle without resolution or rationality. What are we to learn or know from such fragile and formless shapes? Only telling what the heart may know, what the mind tells us not.

Nighttime Flights

I

The dark of night comes stealing, pressing me about. To bed I get me, to flee my deepest doubts. Safe at last in blankets, I lie awake to wait, To begin my nighttime respite and find some restful place. On occasions, as sleep comes stealing, instead of empty nothing, upon my inner eye things suddenly appear. Flashing scenes of vivid color on topics sane or wild. Dizzying adventures with ever-twisting plots. Visits with the living, conversations with the dead, Pursuit by deadly monsters, and science fiction threads. Feeling of great tension amid fears of constant threat; Mixed and intermingled, a jumble in my head.

II

Sometimes upon my journeys I find some new-won fact.

I reach a grand conclusion, which quickly flies when I awaken. I’ll awaken with my wife close by within our bed. I may pause to share a moment that, long ago, seems to have fled. I struggle trying to relate to my nightly trips, with scenes and twisting plots. Leaving me quite exhausted as I startle from my sleep.

III

Sleep becomes my doorway to flights of unknown heights. Trips to places of deep emotions and even horrid frights. All of these are lurking, to come cavorting as I lie i In warming bed. Waiting for dreams to take me on soaring flight.

Where is this?

I

Where is this I find me? How came I to this spot? Methinks it seems familiar, yet in truth I know it not. A door with curtained windows all aflutter on the breeze. A long and twisting staircase that spirals where it climbs. A niche, standing empty, where once a statue stood. A door leading to somewhere, but it won’t open for me. A street made of cobbles, slick and wet from rain. Buildings hidden in shadows with halls I fear to tread. About me, nighttime blackness presses close upon my head. Nameless dread surrounds me, yet still I am alone. A station standing empty located on a plain. My train must soon be coming, still with luggage I must strain. A train stops at a platform, which somehow warps into a hill. I know I should be boarding, but I race to reach it still. A room that seems familiar, yet I cannot place its spot.

A table in a kitchen with a windowsill covered in flowerpots. A field adrift with snow banks that rambles off to the east. Miles to walk in silence and not a place to sleep. Rain never stopping, washing down some muddy street. A fence upon a prairie, which surrounds a shed of wood.

II

Places, times, and seasons, familiar and yet still strange. Repeated in some cycle that makes no sense to me. Where is this I’m seeing? What purpose can it serve? In vain, I pose these questions; unanswered they remain. Riddle-filled enigmas, these dreams that come to me.

Conversations

Wordless conversations, purposes, and thoughts conveyed. Somehow grasped without a single spoken sound. Faces and smiles of those I have known and loved. Somehow speaking and yet strangely silent. How can I converse with those no longer among the living? How can I know what they are saying and yet not give clear voice to my own words? Perhaps I speak but to myself in the soundless depths of mind? Yet even if this is so, still I hear them. Soundlessly emotions and thoughts fill my soul. Somehow comfort and love are obtained, where naught existed before. Quickly, without warning, faces fade. Only silence and blackness remains. Gone into the formless ether, my visitors have swiftly fled. Fled, taking faces so familiar and solace away as well. Comforting is this visit and these words shared with silent voices. No doubt we’ll converse again, when sleep seeks me out. Conversations deep and soundless will come again.

Until, at last, I shall come among them and find my voice once more.

Dreams

What are these uncalled excursions that take the watching mind on bizarre and fanciful flights? What purposes and messages are conveyed by such circumstances? Visions arise, often distorted and confused beyond rationality’s grasp. To this query, no true answers are provided, nor may they ever be. Men, at length, may learn what mortal thoughts may truly be. Conjectures on flights; detached enactments of conflicts and circumstances that life’s course cannot resolve. Perhaps they show hidden hopes and desires denied us. Alternate realities, where one’s other selves abide. Living unaware of countless other selves. While conjectures abound, surety is sadly absent from discourse and rationality. Still men must dream, and in such dreams they live and see what is denied their waking selves. Imprisoned and yet somehow free, souls wander on such flights never knowing why or where they may go.

Daydreams

I

Mind drifting upon mote-filled beams of golden sunshine. Straying from the paths of rationality, sliding unexpectedly into regions of strangest hue. Time suspended between the ticks of nagging clocks. Images and ideas shift and flow in day dream time, Remaining somehow vivid and true, yet detached and apart from reality’s harshest glare. Thoughts detached from the bounds of time carry me on gossamer wings. I soar within a hair’s breadth of reality’s tallest peaks. Sailing along on fanciful flights, I am absorbed by what I see and feel. I am free from the bounds of time and space, Becoming what I wish to become in my deepest inner self.

II

I drift and soar among the cloud-filled heights for uncounted moments, only to land with a jolting jar as the world res me with abrupt surprise. Dejected, I return at last to the bland world of the living. Saddened and disappointed that my journey was so quickly spent. Eager to take wing again, I await the unsuspected moment when winds of favor find me. Winds lifting me upward, freeing my mind to soar in fancied flight.

III

Someday I shall soar so high upon the wings of day dream’s flight that never shall I come to earth again. Remaining aloft amid the drifting clouds, I shall climb ever higher. Climbing higher until at last I come to touch the golden sun. Thus in daydream’s flight I shall find my truest inner self. The world shall no more claim me nor beckon my return. Such soaring flight may take me where I shall dream whatever dreams I may. Day dreams, when sunbeams and dust motes give me wings once again. Day dreams, freeing my soul to soar once more upon fantastic flights.

Dreams Long Gone

Dreams I had in largest measure; once they filled a vibrant mind with hopes and anticipation of boundless scope. The rolling years sped along and such bright dreams as I had were spent and swept away. Dreams taking flight upon the winds of life, Blown away and vanishing, leaving not the vaguest shade or trace to mark their age or recall their brilliant light. Where, I wonder, did these golden dreams go when they slipped away with scarce my barest note? Gone and lost, or perhaps merely lying misplaced, Buried beneath the gathered dust of disbelief and disappointment, Lost in the dark, deep corners of an aged mind. Moments come, when wandering about the corners of my mind, I think I see the barest glimmer of what I once saw with brilliant clarity. These phantoms flee as swiftly as they are found, belying the barest glimpse. Dreams bright and clear, gone, and with their flight, promises are

disappointed, left unredeemed and mourned.

Dream Time

There is a time that wends its course in shadowed ways. Seconds, hours, minutes, and days sweep along, only denied when blinking eyes confront again the waking world. Dreamtime lies ever waiting. Waiting till the silent call of sleep unlocks its nether realm and gives it sway. Without age limits or infirmity in its realm, I live and am. ed to the world by the barest thread of whispered breaths and slowing heart, I move alone in silent flight. How long, I wonder, may I remain until I must awake and stir? Perhaps until dreamtime is all I shall ever know; Never returning, never awaking, again. I wonder who I shall be when in dreamtime I forever dwell.

What I Dream

I

Before shuttered eyes opened first upon day’s pure light, I dreamed a wondrous dream, Where tender mercy and patient kindness framed the tones of every word, Where acceptance and encouragement became the counsel to all ends. What if reason and rationality were conduct’s sole recourse? Where boundless love is given to each in measures beyond all count. Where life’s end was but the portal to dreamless sleep. Where pain and fear were lost, and found not ever again. In such a world, could black despair touch a single soul? Would sun and rain ever lose their lustrous shine? Would the coming dawn bring not a welcome light? Star-filled skies bringing the awe of boundless nights.

II

Such a dream I dreamed. In its span, I found such peace that loath I was to leave its golden glow. If such a dream comes unbidden to a sleeping mind, does it not reveal a place that dwells beyond each waking mind? If God is there, then such dreams reveal His loving hand.

The Place Where Dreams Are Made

Where is that place where dreams are made? Does it lie just beyond the angry shoals of fitful sleep? Does it lie just around the night’s winding shores? A hidden cove, whose curving limbs embrace a gleaming bay. A tranquil sea, where spirits sail upon the moonlit waves. Perhaps it lies deep in the inner stillness of a restful soul. A gentle breath upon a velvet veil, revealing that secret spot where heart and mind are one at last. Is it rather there, just beyond that soaring rise? Is it beyond the brow of that rock bound-ridge? A verdant valley deep, where winding silver streams sing their silken songs. Where is this place where dreams are made? Where affirmation, joy, enlightenment, and fullness of spirit await the weary mind. Surely you have found this place a time or two, and yet do not know the quickest path to reach this wondrous land. Perhaps your fevered mind toils too hard to find a path lying there

beneath your feet. Waiting only for a quiet mind to see the way. So where is that place where dreams are made? In truth, I know it not, though I oft have wandered lost and confused in troubled sleep, hoping to find this haven, Arriving only by purest chance, never by design or ordered aim. Still, no matter where it may be, I shall find the place where dreams are made. I shall find it in time, and there shall I revel in the affirmation of self and soul. Hoping ever to tarry, yet knowing full well that such a fate is not mine to own while still I draw a mortal breath.

Images

Images I see, sharp, clear, and real, yet somehow miscast— Projections of a restless mind, flickering in boundless space. Are they not fashioned by what we claimed as real by waking eyes? Who can say which is then the truer; surely not I? Scenes ing before the mind, they dart by in unrolling vistas as seen from a speeding train. Familiar and yet never known before, they line the routes that take us on a journey whose end we know, yet we have not been there. Images soundless and yet filled with speech, and sounds heard and yet not falling upon any ear. Soundless, we recognize images of what we seem to know. Images in the mind’s sharpest eye, what purpose or plan are yours to tell? Images, you are welcome, when waking hours fade to hissing black.

The Phantom

Secreted away from my living eyes abides that person who lives only to wander, ever unseen, among my restless dreams. Even I, in whose mind he lives, have not beheld his shape. Somehow I know he is but some strange shade of me. A shade that remains unchanging even as my living self goes on. Who is this phantom who views my dreams? Reliving again that which was before. Is he but an aspect of my mind? Is he just a whisper of my soul, living only in the silence of my sleep? Is he simply a twisted projection of my rationality, thrust upon my sleeping mind? Vainly I have sought to seek him out, and still he evades me. Hiding ever behind a shadow that seems to lie so close upon my sightless eyes. Never standing forth, yet ever close at hand. He knows and sees all that I have been and all that I hoped to be. He remains voiceless and silent, living only as a witness. He can never alter even one jot of whatever I was or that which I

shall ever be. Perhaps some night I shall see him clearly for himself, standing forth unchanged amid some dream. Replaying the past, or perhaps projecting that which is yet to be. Viewing him at last, I shall be content to see that shade of self abiding apart from silken shadows. A phantom ever watching what befalls me in my nightly flights.

Xanadu

I

Spires arching to the sky, suffused in crystal light. Ramps and bridges spanning space in ever-leaping arcs. Windows a-glint with golden sparks as the sun turns down his light. Perched upon the snow-clad peaks, astride the racing clouds. Close to heaven yet near to earth, not bound to space or time. Moonbeams glint upon your roofs of polished golden tiles. Soaring columns of ebon hue shimmering in the night. Far above the madding crowds, a haven for my heart. Never ever twice the same, yet ever still my home.

II

How I yearn for Xanadu, for it lives within my soul. Ever I dream of it, and I long to walk its halls. Someday in dreams, I’ll come to rest in Xanadu’s grand and arching halls.

In that space, I’ll see the forms that fill my restless soul. Xanadu fair. Xanadu the fabled wondrous spot. Living ever within my dreams, yet doomed to fade at morning’s light.

Dream’s Revelations

Anticipation beckons the dreamer silently upward through the evershifting vales of sleep. Revelations leading upward into the sudden clarity of morning’s light. What revelation lies almost realized into the waking dreamer’s mind’s eye? What anticipated revelation heralds the long-awaited epiphany of clarity ever sought? Seconds , excitement gives way by degrees to frustration and finally to the dull ache of opportunities ever lost. What was barely grasped is gone like drifting clouds upon the wind. A flickering mirage failing to find focus, the revelation resides just beyond the resolution of straining eyes. Visions fading away when subjected to rationality’s sharpest glance. Thus does restless dreaming seem to promise so much and yet discloses so little to the waking self. Perhaps what lies in dreams is revealed only in symbols and emotions we never comprehend. What appears as nascent revelations are only the over-eager fragments of frustrated longings, never realized.

Still, sometimes, the dreamer does see something vaguely revealing. Edges and outlines in the dream’s shifting focus seem sharper. Alas, that such visions and conceptions are so ephemeral. They are destined to elude the lucid mind. Yet men still dream, hoping ever to keep sight of those truths that the realm of slumber uncovers for the barest instants from its shifting mists. Vivid they seem, and yet ever undefined and unrealized. Dreams, thy revelations are only frustrations. Rationality thy limits, bounded by dreaming minds.

Wishes

When the mind escapes its waking bounds and the borders of circumstance, the mundane melts away, The mists of silent wishes slowly arises, taking shape. What the heart has long desired and long forsaken as ever lost reappears, in forms often hard to discern. Yet beneath uncanny symbols and confusing climes and temporality, comes the aching familiarity of desires unfulfilled. A wish suppressed becomes a cloudy dream. The sleepers in hazy gaze show what once was only a fondest hope. Anticipation rekindled brings again the urge to obtain that which is still beyond one’s grasp. Somehow hope becomes renewed where once it was long lost. How empty is the awakened heart to find that dreams simply faded away. Fading visions floating within gossamer mists. Still, a wish recalled in any form is a hope that wishes may be cast in some better way. This is a true comfort; for bereft of wishes and dreams, the spirit fails.

All that remains at this failing are the ashes of that which never was.

Recalling Yesterday

I often think fondly of my past. Here is a selection of verse on the nature of recalling the past, along with some recollections of past days.

Time’s tugging tides pull us ever onward; peering backward we dimly see yesterdays. Yesterdays real and no more, yet still somehow alive. We feel things that touched us once and move us still. The future urges us onward; still yesterday calls us ever home.

Recalling

A name, a voice, a song, a vista, unlocking that sheltered spot deep within us. We revisit what once we were. Recalling seasons and times near and far removed. Feeling, sights, sounds, and smells, recalled, relived again, even if dimly. Recalling what we believed, things seemed-to-be. Recalling: how strange a word, yet it is truly named. For memories are indeed called back from dusty corners of the mind, Carrying us back from whence we came. Sometimes we see events as well-loved photographs: Pictures giving pleasure to the eyes and warming to the heart. Details forever clear and perfect revisited. Details frozen; in the clarity of the mind’s eye refocused. They are visible to ponder, as we will At times, feeling arise in mysterious measures. We are reminded of moments as they touched us at that instant. Pleasure, excitement, sorrow, remorse, anticipation, fear, and longing;

these and so many more well up and wash over us. We look back upon a moment not truly lost, whose significance has somehow survived as time moved ever onward. Recalling, we may live again some instants that seemed trivial and now loom as an instance of deeper accord. Seen and recognized in the clarity of hindsight, bittersweet, life recalled. We seek to grasp what can never be reclaimed. We finally it we can never reach those times and places where once we stood. Such instants exist only in recall.

Recalling Her

When the night is velvet deep and the touch of silken silence sits softly on my brow, I recall again those thoughts that remind me of her. How remarkable that images of her and emotions so deeply felt come flooding back into my silent soul. Memories calling forth joys so pure I can scarce believe they were ever mine. Alone and dejected, I taste despair. Nowhere is there now such a one who could truly be my own. Yet in an instant unforeseen, hope was mine as I recalled her. Seen again, all we had so fleetingly shared, words and glances never more than shyly met, comes rushing back. How sweet to recall those first words of love we shared. What wonders the world held for me; I found love. Love, ever the dream of romantic hearts. A dream hardly ever found in truth, yet real to us. Sweet these stolen moments recalled when we were at last alone together. Sweeter still, those moments recalled when my soul was

torn when we were apart, quickly renewed by her return. How I longed to see her smiling face and hear her voice. Recalling her is such a wonder, I am sure that such recall was the intention Creation had when the memory of man came alive. While recalling her is sweet, ever sweeter is reality, when in the blackness, I see her sleeping softly at my side. In such moments, my heart knows that the fondest of dreams do come true. For life, in truth, can be more wonderful than we can ever recall.

Recalling

Things recalled become a stream of seeming truth flowing through every human soul. How often we fail to see that things recalled are only images made by an active mind. Recollections are hardly true reflections of reality’s mirror. Recollections are rather refractions, as through a prism. They are an essence of intellect, ever altered by the rolling years. Alas, that we can never see more than silent shadows shaping souls. Never a glass, ever a lens. Self-deception ever abides.

Roads Traversed

I

Every mortal soul finds it beguiling to peer backward at roads once traversed. We view in fairer light what was once true. We hold the present in slighter regard. All the while we are ever foreboding what is yet to come. It seems that where we were, is to be preferred, to where we now stand. The future is feared for what it may portend.

II

If one looks ever backward then life in the moment is foresworn. Each day’s new offerings cast aside without regard, with uncritical disdain. Such a life is incomplete, for it brings no new joys. Anchored in the past, such a life constantly whispers: “Your best days are gone and done.

What is to come are only fading recollections of better days.” While the waning of the days of life calls us to look backward with fondest regard, the exigency of the now calls us forward. Courage demands nothing less than we must live in the now.

Snippets

What one recalls are snippets, clipped from the continuous skein of life, A life whose totality escapes the most discerning rationality. The mind weaves the snippets of recall into gleaming cloths. Cloths telling us who we were and where we have been. Alas, our impressions are vague and incomplete. No one ever knows who we truly are or what we may have been. We recall only snippets, woven by dreams into a veil of untruths. Snippets, projected upon the mind’s eye to deceive us.

Yesterday’s Tears

The recognized strains of an old song brings tears to my aging eyes. Why do I cry at the notes of songs once so dearly loved? Perhaps I mourn for those moments when first I heard these strains? Maybe I feel the loss of bright hopes and dreams, which days of old seemed to offer. My unbidden tears tell me how quickly the sands of time have slipped away from a fool. A fool who failed to savor the gifts of moments that were mine to live. Much of life is recalled as a strand of single shining moments, Strands we cannot grasp and hold as they slipped away. Tears come to remind us that what was past was better than we knew. Reminding also that regret is wasted when we fail to seize the life that remains.

Moments

What are moments? They are simply scenes from the continuous drama of lives. Preserved, called forth from the stores of memory. Called forth at odd instants of unperceived need or expectation. Why such moments, recaptured, are never rationalized. Rarely known are the meanings of such moments; they remain a mystery. Why these revisits call forth emotions and dreams is a puzzle. Things that seemed dead and forgotten are renewed. All our yesterdays are a skein of moments threaded together. One thread draws forth another, in sequences. Sometimes random and strange in their relationships. Often am I surprised at the power of these moments, bursting forth upon my unsuspecting mind. Yesterday is never truly gone and done, for moments lay waiting in the corners of the waking mind. Moments at the pivot of thoughts, propelling us with forces whose power overcomes the inertia of the span of lengthening life. Moments growing ever stronger, even as the years roll on.

Powerful, like a stretched elastic band, pulling us backward, Replaying these moments. What they show us is what our mind wants us to see once more.

Yesterdays Make Me Cry

I

Why, pray tell me, do some yesterdays make me cry? Why do my tears arise unbidden? Recalling instants, sounds, or phrases that marked my days? Perhaps I realize that such moments have come and flown, and I failed to make the most of them. Perhaps I see clearly the paths I failed to trace in the clarity that old age’s wisdom imparts. Maybe I sense that much time is past; my store of life’s precious gifts Is fading swiftly.

II

I see more clearly what was once mine to grasp and that which I failed to seize as it flew away. Such is the span of every mortal score, that unseeing we wander onward toward a fate we wish was never so.

Surely this alone is not all that causes my tears to flow. There are also moments made the dearer by the realization that they were golden and rare. Golden moments that seldom come again. Oh that what we loved so well is fleeting, and we cannot grasp it, ever unchanged, in our hearts. So let the tears come and with them joy I knew.

III

Life burns too brightly, it is destined to fade and fail before the siege of time and tide. Life the brightest gift, meant only for swift flight as the seconds dart along. Life, the sweeter, dwells not in any single instant, moving in swinging arcs. Swinging forward and backward, a pendulum in a clock upon a shelf.

IV

Tears are not only shed from sadness, they also arise when

revelations of beauty are ours, if only for an instant. These are the moments when we feel most keenly that life is all the sweeter when tasted to the full. Life recalled with fondest regard; such tears are signs of thanksgiving for gifts rare and sweet. Thus the tears must flow, though I wish it were not so. Tears shed for yesterday’s gifts, reminders of bright days and moments well spent.

Yesterday’s Sounds

What are the sounds of yesterday? Are they simply the silent age of memories replayed before the mind’s eye? Are they well-loved moments called forth by the notes of some old melody or musical phrase? Alighting softly upon the ear, they awaken feelings dormant but living still in the deep recesses of a beating heart. Perhaps these sounds are half-recalled phrases of a voice fondly loved, Snippets of conversations, long blown away on the ether of silence, Recalled, like the soft rustle of wind-stirred leaves, on an errant breeze. Does yesterday own a voice, to give it sound? It does indeed, and it is your own. Silently it sings its songs, drawn from the well of self.

Sweet Recall

I

How sweet to recall better times. To see again shining moments polished to perfection by the silent burnishing of sweet recall. Forgotten now are disappointments, anticipations, and chilling fears. Feelings that once arose like huge storm-tossed waves. Waves barring our way before glittering dreams of old.

II

Like a calming sea or a wide cloudless sky, prologue and circumstances vanish. Chased away by heedless time until only the cherished instants remain to refresh weary souls. Thus does mind and soul remake the past, giving us repose and pleasure. Thus we are not overcome anew by circumstances and events that

loomed once so fiercely before us.

III

Threats and pain subside and ebb away; only sweet recall abides. This is the essence of sweet recall, made ever the fairer by time, until at each instance it becomes perfection, evading the active moments of every life. Sweet recall smiles kindly on every human heart. Showing anew those moments that life may now deny us. Glints of sunshine to pierce the clouds of the darker days of the inner self. Sweet recall giving hope and affirmation when the need is great and means seem few.

Snow with Her

Can you recall it? Can you see it? The silent snow is falling as you stand close to me. The sky darkened under clouds thick and black. No moonbeams shining, still we see our eyes all a-sparkle, as snow alights to dress the trees. The howl of the wind as it tugs at our house, brings shivers of joy as we snuggle tightly. With love to surround us, the snow’s lacy fall brings comforting silence as it clings to our walls. There in the silence of the deep winter night, we kiss in a moment of perfect delight. Then to bed, ‘neath blankets piled high, To cling to each other till dawn brings her new light. To our windows we race to see a blanket of white spread roof to tree. Hearts aglow, with hands held tight, we see snow is still falling to our sheer delight. Clouds white and somber, sealing gray skies, tell us the storm lives on.

The bounty of winter snow piles higher at our doors. How we rejoice to see all the new snow, for it keeps us together and apart from the world. Though it’s unsaid, our hearts know snow brings memories of long-ago days. Days long gone when we stood hand in hand on a rooftop heaped high in winter snow. Two kids agog at piled snow, so much fun before us. Now, my dearest, you recall how we felt, snow mounded around; we were so young. Years have flown, we’ve journeyed afar; still memories of falling snow bring a glow to our hearts.

Emotions

Every person is subject to emotions; here are my reflections on some of the specific forces that shape our lives.

Streams of thoughts that shape and mold every human life. Feeling often without consideration’s due, taking us to places, and high and low, desired or abhorred. No soul escapes them; precious few are their master.

Angst

Tension ever twisting. Hopeful dreams bent askew. Anxious hours in its cold grip, calling forth sleepless nights. Nights filled with shadowed thoughts that shake the soul. Angst, a word whose sound rends the ear. A sound with a discordant voice to match its vile intention. Slow and unrelenting, tearing at the edges of composure. Until the weave of life’s tranquility comes undone, and the mind knows peace no more. Angst, a force that may extend beyond even mortality.

Anger

Red, searing it may be. Erupting without warning, raising ire and wrath. Emotion elevated to levels sometimes beyond sanity’s reasoned bounds. ion unfettered by morality or reason. Deadly to all who feel its blackened breath. Slow and rending, it arises from the bowels of affronts, real or imagined. Striking with malicious jabs, like the flashing strikes of a poisoned snake. Avenging the grinding hurts, it projects its own. Oh how it blackens souls. Assaulting the spirit, driving every trace of solace from its grasp. Raging till naught remains but churning rage. Anger, pride’s darkling twin. Slaying joy, spreading bitter bile, till darkness steals the light and dawn brings little aid.

Fear

Cold and sly, lurking, in dark corners, it comes to seize the living soul. From its rending grasp, many flee in mad retreat. They flee to save their shaking souls until they can run no more. Falling, at length, in despair, deep in the darkness of the mind. Others stand with stern resolve against fear’s rising tide. Mastering, not mastered, until fear’s attack is stemmed. Fear failing, like ebbing waves upon a sanded shore, leaving no lasting mark. Bravery found, these souls transcend their mortal selves. Facing their limitations, still they strive to stand their ground. Defeated or victorious, it matters not, for dignity is theirs to own. Never far from every heart, Fear is among the darkest emotion of the soul. Yet, before resolve and abiding faith, fear has no lasting dominion. Where faith and will reside, fear has no lasting place.

Tranquility

An island of pastel-hued detachment amid the turbulence of life’s often fevered flow. Self-contained in completeness and resolution. Tranquility needs neither rationality nor exposition’s sharpened focus. Ever the dream of the dreamer, yet never found by fevered search. Existence ever doubted, yet reaffirmed by tranquility’s unexpected light. Transcending baser drives, it stands ever as man’s best hope attained, The place where life’s truest wisdom has its seat. Transient and ever fleeting, a place to rest the weary soul.

Sadness

A surge of vertigo as the spirit plummets from scanty heights. A veil of tears seeking to blind the soul, obscuring sunshine bright. Loss and loneliness creeping forward to claim their place. Gray skies shuttering down, chasing blue away. A world that seems wet with cold and driving rains. Grinding pain biting at the edges of the heart. Paralytic pangs inciting spirit’s flight. Yet in sorrow’s deepest vale, often there comes stealing a slender ray of light. Memories recalled, though faintly, remind that hope, however fragile, somehow persists. Thus in the darkest depths of sorrow, a flame flickers small and bright. Darkness held at bay, sadness wanes. Black trails to gray, yielding at length to clouds of soaring white.

Truest Love

The soul knows no sweeter moments than when caressed by the angelic touch of truest love. In rarefied moments, the self-transcended, knows with certainty what life in fullest bloom offers. Of all the gifts one receives, none is finer than truest love. Life grows sweeter, savored, as the years roll onward. Truest love, the only gift that grows when given away. Love, never losing its wondrous glow or wearing thin, even when body and soul are assailed by the woes of life’s darker moments; true love shines brighter, healing heart and mind. No soul once graced by truest love remains unchanged. With truest love the soul, revitalized, attains its better self. Thus two are ed to make a shining one. For those who know it, words are but pale testament to its joy. For those who know truest love are never diminished. Sad, indeed, is a life that does not know truest love.

Grief

When sorrow approaches the nadir of dismay, this is grief. Sorrow at its very boundary is the domain of grief. In such a state, the soul is cast adrift upon a sea of seething darkness. Skies of starless black and absolute darkness show never a glimmer of light. Every waking experience, thought, or vague stirring of the mind becomes a vision abhorred. Grief is bitter in its inception and deeply complete. Hope is abandoned, and only the uneven dragging of the brutal hours may bring surcease. Thoughts never expected and always unbidden may bring respite. For most, this voyage is cruel and diamond sharp in its lack of mercy. Some end their journey of darkness, emerging to a renewed life. Others simply drift on alone, remaining unjustifiedn until life is nomore. Joy is the apex of the soul’s delight, and grief is its nadir. It is said that emotions have bounds. Grief is the lower bound.

Hope

Ever the path to better thoughts, hope is the lamp unto men’s souls. In the darkest vale or among the gray monotones of dragging time, hope is the single ray of light, pointing the way upward. Life without hope is the prelude to despair. Those bereft of hope live neither well nor long. Hope, like a beam of golden sunshine from a cloud-capped sky, is as welcoming as a spring morning on the heels of winter’s gray chills. Hope, a golden path to life’s greatest gifts. Hope, a refreshing wind to restore the soul. Hope, breathing life anew into careworn hearts.

Loneliness

When no human voice or sound bestirs the soul, and no one seeks your waiting eyes, loneliness is upon you. Memories and dreams may come to fill the hours, but these grow fainter as the years press on, fading at last to gray and black. Bereft of signs and symbols of human concern, the bounds of self fade and fail. Bounds replaced by monotones of gray and white and the rising hiss of silence comes to rules the days. In loneliness, we learn that men must ever seek other souls. For what is beauty, truth, or the unexpected joy of discovery that remains unshared? When I count the things in life of worth, it is the sharing of self alone that banishes the chill of a lonely heart. In dreams and hopes, at dark of night or blaze of day, let loneliness never be my companion.

Reverence

Into the seething storm of soul’s night, a ray of silver light shines brightly. Darkness recedes before the quiet light of inner faith. God’s hand upon my sleeve recalls the height and breadth of the beauty of His creation. The ineffable and heartening grace of such moments refreshes soul and mind. One is in the presence of God, finding one’s proper place. In reverence we gain tranquility and grateful resolve. We feel the loving touch of God, a kiss upon the soul.

Disappointment

Hopes are cast aside, dreams and anticipation slip and fall away. Desires and ambitions fade to angry ashes. All seemingly revealed in the realities of harshest light. Golden wishes fade to dross. The emptiness of failure descends upon me. What was once so avidly sought is now driest dust. Disappointment leaves me lost, with no summits left to scale. Realized or lost, only the bitter taste of self-loathing remains. Ever less than I hoped, I am totally abashed in disappointment.

Anticipation

Excitement ever growing, awaiting what is yet to be. Dreaming, yearning, and deepest longings seeking to be fulfilled. Expectations rising to ever-growing heights as time lags upon its dragging course. Hoping and yet ever fearing that desires may fail and fall giving no satisfaction. Anticipation urges hearts ever forward, awaiting moments when dreams are made real.

Satisfaction

Anticipation and expectation met in fullest measure. Dreams and hopes come true at last. What is sought is held within our grasp. Spirits are filled and free of self-reproach. Doubt and fear cast aside and fled away. In such silence, heart and soul find sweet repose. Satisfaction, the heaven of dreams and desire.

Inspiration

Dreams and hopes surging upward to sharpest focus. What was sought seems close to being found. Far beyond whatever we dared to dream, we see a light dawning at last. Springing from depths and places unknown; such a joy to behold. Inspiration’s moments are truly blessed; coming unexpectedly, they are too rare to ignore. At times, as far off as the faintest stars, they move us with force, making spirits soar to boundless heights. Mortal and immortal touch in brief accord; the fruits of inspiration.

Courage

When fear tugs upon us and we struggle beneath its awesome weight, courage somehow wells upward. Courage, impelling souls forward and upward to places and deeds we never dared to dream could be real. Without fear, there is no need for courage. Without courage, how meager will the deeds of men become? Courage: the force that makes us greater than we dream.

Pride

The deadliest of all emotions, pride deceives the spirit into illusions of undeserved merit. Lulled and deceived, we ignore those faults that should be plainly seen and deeply lamented. Where pride holds sway, we are in gravest danger of becoming lost in a haze of self-delusion. Of all men’s greatest fears, excessive pride is man’s most beguiling and darkest attraction. When excessive pride rears its head, one should flee fast away, Praying most earnestly that such feeling gives way to meeker reality. Whatever any person may impute to us, it is God’s judgment alone that has lasting value.

Epilogue

Lines laid before scanning eyes, Lines, come, at last, to their winding end. Dreams, visions, impressions dark and light, Offered in fondest hopes, to please hearts and minds. Pray accept them as a gift, not mine alone to give.

Francis M. Bonevento January 2008

The End