to contemplate your beauty
is this poets' guilty pleasure,
but, as we're taking separate trains,
this joy won't last forever.
The play of light upon your face
as you read some Lovers' twit
gives you an aspect of Kabuki
in the station's dark abyss.
Your perfect, doll-like, features
painted porcelain by the light
An oasis of sheer beauty
amidst the station's urban blight.
Too quick, the moment passes.
I board and you remain.
For, you see, I'm headed Westbound
aboard the downtown train.
You reminded me of one I loved
in another place and time.
The girl who is forever young
and never far from mind.

I remember when his love died,
With care, I buried each memory,
How could I know echoes would escape,
Bringing to my heart their treachery

With cloud drifts, his words come floating,
On the wind, close to my ears they glide,
When the evening spreads its purple cloak
I run underneath, trying to hide

But I find no sanctuary,
Everywhere I go, an echo strays,
Echoes of pledges made by our hearts
Are searching for those happier days

Echoes stir the sleeping fragments
Of a heart shattered by a cruel blow,
Tell me, in what way have I wronged Fate
That it chooses to punish me so!

I'm a prisoner of his echoes,
They keep me chained to his memory,
His words crash and break like crystal waves,
Pounding my heart's shore endlessly

I don't know how such things can be,
All my days now in darkness are clad;
Slowly, but surely, haunting echoes
Of his love are driving me mad!

Not with a blade
Nor with blood on my hands
But with wisdom
And compassion
May I be tyranny’s end

With poetry and prose
With the ink and the rose
With an inkling to know
Just and unjust
Right from wrong
May I be tyranny’s end

With love
Not a bullet
No bombs to blow through it
No glass shattered or metal disfigured
This is what I figured
May a revolution of words
Be tyranny’s end

To the opera house the happy youths went
Two pretties, each strolled with a handsome gent
Four friends with every good intent
Of having a grand old time

Fair Marjorie dressed in sapphire blue
Her Alfred was wearing the same color, too
While Charles and Francine matched a crimson-y hue
The ambiance was feeling sublime

The lights of the theater were bright, but romantic
A large chandelier straight above made the ladies feel frantic
Violins started tuning, like strange waves of Atlantic
The grandeur of curtains opened, as the stage was undressed

But what humored the bunch was the old lady in peplum skirt
Two seats over from Alfred with birds embroidered on her shirt
She was peculiar, came alone and looked hardly alert
As the actors took position, she yawned, unimpressed

The old lady's antics continued for over an hour
She snorted at the singing, with boisterous power
By intermission her nose-blowing had turned each love scene sour
Our four were straining, containing their laughter

And during the intermission everyone got up, bought a drink
But the old lady just sat there, like she wanted to think
Beginning to stroke the dark fur of her wraparound mink
She nodded, falling asleep shortly after

Charles saw it first--"the old girl's dozed right off!"
Alfred chuckled and Francine, beginning to scoff
Proposed they prank the lady, but Marjorie coughed
Saying, "shame on you, wicked child!"

So they all sat back down and awaited the second unveiling
Two seats over from Alfred, the gray one's slumber unfailing
Act two and act three ended, the hero prevailing
At the final bow, the audience was wild

Everyone clapped and cheered loudly, some whistled or threw roses
Everyone but the one in the third seat over, under all the guests noses
Who slept though each applause and the actor's last poses
The theater was clearing out quickly

Four waited--Alfred, Marjorie, Charles and Francine
To see if she would wake and depart from the scene
The last five in the balcony, the gray one serene
The fun was over and they decided to help her get up

When Charles tapped her shoulder, they all finally knew
How tonight's show had smothered a moment so true
The old lady was found dead in the presence of those few
Still in the same seat, they never helped her get up

I love all avenues
of human advancement
as long as they
seek the expansion
of knowledge, wisdom,
and compassion.

From my window I gazed on a lily
That had been denied rain and sun,
Always looking heavenward with trust,
Pleading for mercy . . . but finding none

From my window I watched a grieving bird --
Strong gales had swept over her nest,
In vain, she called to her loving mate . . .
Morning found his tattered wings at rest

From my window I observed a woman,
Lonely tears channeling her face,
Every day she walked her path alone,
Feeble and unsteady in her pace

A reassuring word might sustain her,
As I hastened to draw nearer,
It was only then I realized
That I was looking in my mirror

The slighted lily, the forsaken bird,
How devious the mind can be!
My own pain, so cleverly disguised
Fills my mirror, staring back at me

From my window I watch life passing by,
O, these eyes, how they have deceived!
But blessed are they who cannot discern
What is certain from what is perceived