When the world begins again
I remember
dreams of springtimes past
blossoming in every petal,
bright and shiny
in the morning of forgotten past regret.
I cry
as the rain begins to fall.
Gentle though the spring rain glistens,
I remember.
I turn away
as the last flower rears its head,
and to it give the memory
to hold as I walk
and let it fade
into a bygone day.
I let that gentle rain
wash my tears away,
and never look back until the other side
where is revealed
a waiting summer sun.

In the Moonlight


In the moonlight
a shadow
growing as a pool of blackest night
spilling over.
A cry echoed
and then one more.
But silence reigned supreme.
I watched,
as the moon fell to the earth.
I reached out
one hand.
I did not catch it.
Through my fingers
slipped the light as water falling,
memory flowing
over the jagged rocks
of one mind’s Eternity.
No longer did I stand
in the moonlight.
My hand
but for the shadow that remained,
and ever always.

Silent, At the River


Silent, at the river
stands a man,
eyes cast down to the rushing water.
Hours pass,
and he waits
hands clasped in lonely supplication.
As the sun sets
he turns his gaze slowly upward
and the sky darkens.
The breeze settles
and the treetops bow
almost imperceptibly.
One leaf falls
as a teardrop in the night.
The man falls to his knees,
hands raised to the heavens,
one tear
never allowed to fall,
though the first star of night never rises
and the river runs
ever onward.

The Knight On the Hill


In a kingdom in the north there stands a solitary knight.
He sits atop his horse high on a hill.
He keeps one hand on his blade, always prepared to fight.
For his king, a foe he’d swiftly kill.

His free hand gently strokes the long mane of his brindle steed.
A teardrop forms so slowly in his eye.
His mind turns back to long ago, his last heroic deed.
He shakes his head and breathes a weary sigh.

Behind the knight a castle stands, once home of his dear king,
tall as the trees and black as starry night.
On his finger still he wears the royal signet ring,
but no squire has he by his side.

The castle turrets crumble and the moat remains dry.
No tapers burn in sconces, clear and bright.
Ivy clambers up the walls, bats through the towers fly.
Weeds choke out the early morning light.

In the great hall thrones sit empty, no court jester plays.
The kitchen sits cold with no oven fire.
No servants run on the long stairs all through the night and day.
In the chapel sits no jolly friar.

No longer does the brittle stone keep out the summer rain.
Bedrooms fill with winter ice and snow.
No horses nicker, eager, in the stable down the lane.
But the knight has nowhere else to go.

The knight will stand there waiting till his very last day.
In his heart, the kingdom always new.
“We won’t look behind us, dear one,” to his mount he says,
“but to our duty always remain true.”

After the Rain

After the rain of evening the oceans cry.
Subtly does the water stir the sand,
the air fresh, cold,
but ripe with the smell of tears.
Drowning sailors cannot see beyond the maiden’s eye.
When every bluish wave retreats back to its bed,
whispers in the deep
rise to greet the air.
except for one who knows when and how to listen.

Until Time Stops


Time goes this way and that
and always with a springy step.
Forward is one way now
and another the next,
thoughts unfurling,
turning backward without warning.

Waves break and rise and break again
until at last all voices are silent in the chilly death of one last winter,
the sand washed away to reveal that which is the only truth:

There is no one left to tend the field
and the last ray of summer sun
has died for the final time.

The Lighthouse

It stands there so tall and so quietly waiting,
the lighthouse in all of its glory.
But dark does it stay, its sad fate contemplating.
Nobody remembers its story.

Once bright shone the light pointing out at the sea.
A beacon to guide weary sailors,
lone captains or castaways drifting lonely,
the world-weary, spent navigators.

O’er all gazed the lighthouse, the hope in despair,
to tell them they were not forgotten.
The light was a hand reaching out of the veil,
rejecting none, noble or common.

It wants the company of but one man,
a caretaker kindly and true,
who maintains the signal as best as he can,
the clockwork, the lens, wicks, and fuel.

But storm clouds did gather, as black as the night,
and thunder, a deafening roaring.
They said of the lighthouse, “Its glow is too slight,
the workings in need of restoring.”

They watched the old keeper climb stairs on slow feet,
and hauling with tired, trembling hands.
They told him, “I’m sorry, you’re now obsolete.
This lighthouse will go on, unmanned.”

And so there it stayed, without e’en one true friend,
assumed to remain automatic.
But slowly all ceased, on its light to depend.
Yet still it endured, enigmatic.

Though all will forget, recollections persist
in that agèd spire so imposing.
While the old light is gone, faded into the mist,
ne’er on sea air will mem’ries stop blowing.



A sea breeze blows
carrying a sacred whisper.
A voice
muffled by the sound of tears
falling silently.
The loudest sound of all –
the echo within a heart
still beating
with no purpose.

A sea breeze blows.
I give to it my last promise.
I am always here.
Ever searching on the breeze,
calling silently,
louder than the echoes
of waiting now and ever.
Just listen
and remember.

I Said “Good Day” to the Devil in Disguise


When first I saw him, I was a young man,
no more than twenty and three.
He said she left me because of my past.
Her future lay not with me.
I asked for salvation, and he replied,
“With me now you must surely stand.”
He gave me a blade that I pressed to my wrist.
His smile said, yes, that’s what I planned.
And even through tears, his true face I could see.
I let the blade fall fast away.
“You are not the Angel, Sir.”
That I did say.
“And so I must bid you good day.”

When the World Was New

Those heady blossoms,
I can see them now!
Once, and only one more time,
I lie down
as one who knows the summer’s day is in my heart again.
How surely can one know
how and when and where and why?
Is it not the case that even
fear to tread
where hope and rays of sunlight die?

Lost to the ages
is that special time in youth
when one has dreams of knowing
that which was and is,
and that which only happened
in the mind of one who never came this way before.
Who can remember
when darkness failed to stir
the dreams of dreamers in a fantasy of dread?
The deepest recess of imagined fear
cannot be the only place where every mind and heart
recalls the emptiness that came before.

Then one day,
I fear the last but one,
it all came tumbling down around the trees in some lost garden.
Oh, to feel again!
Why does a soul shy away from pain
when pain is all that can outlast the years?

If spirits come and go,
there is nothing left to keep for any day besides tomorrow.
If only there were fears that bleed
the blood of every joyful and forgotten sorrow,
then could I guess
the end
of the one and only true beginning.
And this world could be lost
without shame,
without the guilt of doubt and tears and wonder.

There would only be the day
that comes both in the past and in the future,
when all will begin again.
but also old
for the final time
that is also the first.