Last night I dreamed of some far place
where time at last stood stood.
Before me stood a golden gate
atop a grassy hill.
And I felt peace within my heart
like never once before.
I wanted to stay in that place,
now and forever more.
But then I opened wide my eyes,
and, oh! The gate was gone!
My tears fell fast, for then I heard
time’s steady march go on.

Into the Woods


Into the woods I wander
searching for a special place
that calls to me.
And the trees,
they guide me
to the light within the dark.
To my left a river runs,
and the wind whispers in the leaves
telling me I have found the way.
Though the path is long and dark
and I may never reach the place where my dream lies waiting,
I give myself to the woods,
knowing I am safe at last
for never will the whispers
tell me to go back again.
The dream alive forever more.
And I am free
to wander.

The Golden Place


Across an ocean black as pitch, some say,
there lies a land that even time forgot,
an ancient place where dwell forgotten dreams.
And if one finds perchance safe passage there
by searching darkest depths of memory,
a golden city will at last appear.
Though don’t be foold by beauty’s shining light,
for ‘neath the gold is only an abyss.
And when the city opens wide its gate,
revealed is naught but endless empty streets
beneath which breathe the souls who came before.
There is but one way down the golden streets,
no way to turn back on the path once found.
And at the center of that golden place
is where all roads at long last will converge.
And in the center is an azure pool,
it sings a siren’s call to weary feet.
None can resist the pull to water’s edge,
the lure of knowledge in eternal sleep.
With just one touch the universe revealed,
and light of gold gives way to starry night.
And in that instant one joins with the sun
that ever keeps that golden city bright.

Where the Sun Shines


A breeze caresses my cheek
and I hear waves breaking on a sandy shore.
Breathing deep the salty air,
I take one step
into a beam of sun.
And I know that it has shone forever.
I hear your voice
and I walk
until the sand gives way to stone beneath my feet,
and I turn
but behind me is only darkness.
I strain to hear
but no gentle breeze caresses my cheek
on which your voice can carry.
And so I walk
into the darkness
searching for that eternal sun,
though I may never reach the shore.
I will walk
until I feel the sea air blowing,
and hope you will be waiting
in the sunshine.

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.

On Writing

Michaelangelo said that every block of marble has a statue inside, and it is up to the sculptor to “let it out.” Could the same be said of other forms of expression?

Inspiration is the lifeblood of those in creative fields. For a writer, this could translate into the development of story ideas, characters, plotlines, and any number of other elements that combine to form a piece of creative writing. But where do these elements come from? A likely answer would be that they come from the mind of the writer. And this is undoubtedly true but, for me anyway, it is also the case that each story idea comes with its own unique features that are inherent from the original idea itself.

I would never presume to speak for any other writer but, when I start a poem or story, I think of a general idea for any given piece of writing, usually with the beginning and ending well formed in my mind, and simply start writing. I will almost always have an idea of the major events of a story when I begin, but the smaller details will not necessarily all be worked out in my mind. For me, this is not a problem because the story exists, and so it will tell me how it goes as I go on writing. In other words, I know what a story is about and where it will end up. Then, I start writing and the details of that story reveal themselves to me as I go. For me, this is the most natural way of writing and it is just about the only way that I feel I can write (not that I have really tried any other way!). I enjoy writing in this way as well, as I feel that it provides me with a feeling of security; any time I feel like I am “stuck” and cannot continue with a story, I simply put it aside. In my mind, this simply means that the story has not fully revealed itself to me at that moment. Many times I have put a piece of writing aside, sometimes for weeks or months, only to take it up again and finish it in a matter of days at a time when I can better perceive the details of the story.

Of course, my particular method of writing definitely has its drawbacks. It is certainly not the most disciplined or efficient way of writing. If I do not feel that I can continue with a particular piece, I simply do not go on with it at that time. While I always hope that I will be able to “see” the next part of the story at a later time (and most of the time this does seem to be the case), there is always the chance that a piece will simply go unwritten. It also means that my writing often comes erratically in sometimes wildly uneven bursts – I might write one page one day and ten pages the next. And I am probably more rigid than many writers about making changes to my stories as, to me, each work is a complete whole with features that are inseparable from that whole. As such, it can be very hard to bring myself to change even minor details such as character names as, in my perception, they are fundamental parts of the story.

I should note that by no means do I think my habit of waiting for a story to “form,” and to reveal itself in some organic manner as I write, is the best way of writing, nor do I think that it is any way more correct than any other. In my opinion, there is no right or wrong way of putting one’s ideas down on paper; there is only the way that any given individual does it. To me, the process is just that – a means for expressing oneself and recording one’s ideas. It is up to individual writers to determine what works and what does not for themselves, and to find what will allow them to achieve their personal writing goals.