In plain sight, the Peacocks ply their wearisome
Colours.  Awkwardly swaying, pompously preening,
They cry to be seen, their voices are gurgling  
And gawking.  The direction of wind is their vane.

Overhead, in the secret sky fleet wings are truth.
In the sun the searing Falcon is seeing all;
His talons turn and steal away, they are mad,  
Playful fingers— they will have their say.

In plain sight, the Peacocks ply their wearisome
Colours.  Awkwardly swaying, pompously preening,
They cry to be seen, their voices are gurgling  
And gawking.  The direction of wind is their vane.

Overhead, in the secret sky fleet wings are truth.
In the sun the searing Falcon is seeing all;
His talons turn and steal away, they are mad,  
Playful fingers— they will have their say.

In plain sight, the Peacocks ply their wearisome
Colours.  Awkwardly swaying, pompously preening,
They cry to be seen, their voices are gurgling  
And gawking.  The direction of wind is their vane.

Overhead, in the secret sky fleet wings are truth.
In the sun the searing Falcon is seeing all;
His talons turn and steal away, they are mad,  
Playful fingers— they will have their say.


*— after W. B. Yeats

In plain sight, the Peacocks ply their wearisome
Colours.  Awkwardly swaying, pompously preening,
They cry to be seen, their voices are gurgling  
And gawking.  The direction of wind is their vane.

Overhead, in the secret sky fleet wings are truth.
In the sun the searing Falcon is seeing all;
His talons turn and steal away, they are mad,  
Playful fingers— they will have their say.

Memories are shuttered —
In the out of doors closing,
For five eternal years we were,
Once married beside a church,
Beside a tomb.

And our hearts were simple, freed
Among the moss of grey stones,
Pebble beach and wayfare wishes
And wild doves seemed always
To be hovering.

And our only bed, growing ever
Cold as a cup of leftover wine —
We drank in sacramental prayers
Never uttered, never declared,
After all that was.

As it was after all, only —
A mere, makeshift dream.

Memories are shuttered —
In the out of doors closing,
For five eternal years we were,
Once married beside a church,
Beside a tomb.

And our hearts were simple, freed
Among the moss of grey stones,
Pebble beach and wayfare wishes
And wild doves seemed always
To be hovering.

And our only bed, growing ever
Cold as a cup of leftover wine —
We drank in sacramental prayers
Never uttered, never declared,
After all that was.

As it was after all, only —
A mere, makeshift dream.

.
Memories are shuttered —
In the out of doors closing,
For five eternal years we were,
Once married beside a church,
Beside a tomb.

And our hearts were simple, freed
Among the moss of grey stones,
Pebble beach and wayfare wishes
And wild doves seemed always
To be hovering.

And our only bed, growing ever
Cold as a cup of leftover wine —
We drank in sacramental prayers
Never uttered, never declared,
After all that was.

As it was after all, only —
A mere, makeshift dream.

.
Memories are shuttered—
In the out of doors closing,
For five eternal years we were,
Once married beside a church,
Beside a tomb.

And our hearts were simple, freed
Among the moss of grey stones,
Pebble beach and wayfare wishes
And wild doves seemed always
To be hovering.

And our only bed, growing ever
Cold as a cup of leftover wine—
We drank in sacramental prayers
Never uttered, never declared,
After all that was.

As it was after all, only—
A mere, makeshift dream.

.
In spring meadow a new song is—
Laid on an earthly table with birds
To feather nest, breaths remember,
Budding poems of leaves embrace,
All season is watered, warmly held
Dearly, bright and kept into drying
Bouquets.  Little creatures—flutter
In concords, humming with breeze
Caught fallows freed into sanctuary
Of bloom and spark, do clearly note
Abundance soon will break, arrived
To reasons that trail green into fires
Of earned, autumnal transcendence,
The flowers of peak, mature fruition.
In a spring meadow, celebrations all
Thrown— confetti let loose by Gods.
.

.
In spring meadow a new song is—
Laid on an earthly table with birds
To feather nest, breaths remember,
Budding poems of leaves embrace,
All season is watered, warmly held
Dearly, bright and kept into drying
Bouquets.  Little creatures—flutter
In concords, humming with breeze
Caught fallows freed into sanctuary
Of bloom and spark, do clearly note                                                             ­    
Abundance soon will break, arrived
To reasons that trail green into fires
Of earned, autumnal transcendence,
The flowers of peak, mature fruition.
In a spring meadow, celebrations all
Thrown— confetti let loose by Gods.

.
In the butterfly I see,
The soft seeding of mystery,
In the buzz of bees,
There are immortal histories,
As the wild geese fly,
I hear monks chanting on high,
In crow of craven rook,
There is wisdom more than book,
By heron there is knowing,
Cycles of life in still waters flowing,
In sky for all to witness,
Clouds shaping our dreams, limitless,
In symmetries of snowflake,
Are whispers louder than any thunderclap,
Swans in sky, if we would look,
Hum their wings as babble from brook,
In a blade of green grass,
Their are running grains of hourglass,
In temple of solitary pine,
There is a scent intoxicating as wine,
At the ponds edge are fables,
Deep as the sun sparkling on its tables,
In dear wood there are fires bright,
In the eyes that hear and see at night,
On the great oceans are crests,
More shining, noble than any kings breast,
In the grey, lowly moth I see,
A wondrous butterfly wanting to be.

.
In the butterfly I see,
The soft seeding of mystery,
In the buzz of bees,
There are immortal histories,
As the wild geese fly,
I hear monks chanting on high,
In crow of craven rook,
There is wisdom more than book,
By heron there is knowing,
Cycles of life in still waters flowing,
In sky for all to witness,
Clouds shaping our dreams, limitless,
In symmetries of snowflake,
Are whispers louder than any thunderclap,
Swans in sky, if we would look,
Hum their wings as babble from brook,
In a blade of green grass,
Their are running grains of hourglass,
In temple of solitary pine,
There is a scent intoxicating as wine,
At the ponds edge are fables,
Deep as the sun sparkling on its tables,
In dear wood there are fires bright,
In the eyes that hear and see at night,
On the great oceans are crests,
More shining, noble than any kings breast,
In the grey, lowly moth I see,
A wondrous butterfly wanting to be.
.

I was unaccustomed to keyless locks,
Nor the binding doors
You set ajar, like a teasing shock,
Bled deep in the chambers of the heart,

Where the arteries of your hair played on
And strung my out to fry,
Until my hands were roped and singed raw
Spurned in the chambers of the heart.

I was deserted, lost, run aground, drowned,
By the ocean of your eyes,
Wholly held, captive in loves ghostly mansion,
***** alive, in the chambers of the heart.

.
I was unaccustomed to keyless locks,
Nor the binding doors
You set ajar, like a teasing shock,
Bled deep in the chambers of the heart,

Where the arteries of your hair played on
And strung my out to fry,
Until my hands were roped and singed raw
Spurned in the chambers of the heart.

I was deserted, lost, run aground, drowned,
By the ocean of your eyes,
Wholly held, captive in loves ghostly mansion,
***** alive, in the chambers of the heart.

I was unaccustomed to keyless locks,
Nor the binding doors
You set ajar, like a teasing shock,
Bled deep in the chambers of the heart,

Where the arteries of your hair played on
And strung my out to fry,
Until my hands were roped and singed raw
Spurned in the chambers of the heart.

I was deserted, lost, run aground, drowned,
By the ocean of your eyes,
Wholly held, captive in loves ghostly mansion,
***** alive, in the chambers of the heart.

I was unaccustomed to keyless locks,
Nor the binding doors
You set ajar, like a teasing shock,
Bled deep in the chambers of the heart,

Where the arteries of your hair played on
And strung my out to fry,
Until my hands were roped and singed raw
Spurned in the chambers of the heart.

I was deserted, lost, run aground, drowned,
By the ocean of your eyes,
Wholly held, captive in loves ghostly mansion,
***** alive, in the chambers of the heart.

I was unaccustomed to keyless locks,
Nor the binding doors
You set ajar, like a teasing shock,
Bled deep in the chambers of the heart,

Where the arteries of your hair played on
And strung my out to fry,
Until my hands were roped and singed raw
Spurned in the chambers of the heart.

I was deserted, lost, run aground, drowned,
By the ocean of your eyes,
Wholly held, captive in loves ghostly mansion,
***** alive, in the chambers of the heart.

I was unaccustomed to keyless locks,
Nor the binding doors
You set ajar, like a teasing shock,
Bled deep in the chambers of the heart,

Where the arteries of your hair played on
And strung my out to fry,
Until my hands were roped and singed raw
Spurned in the chambers of the heart.

I was deserted, lost, run aground, drowned,
By the ocean of your eyes,
Wholly held, captive in loves ghostly mansion,
***** alive, in the chambers of the heart.

.
In the love field are colours at prayer below sun,
The dissipated shades in morning give way—
A hush of dark stamped out for choir that comes,
Each flower sings saviour, each petal a blade.

Happy heads affixed their stalks, free as wind,
Unfurl each day, great vessels, stationary sails,
Louder than any pride could break or cast a sin,
Wild are the flowers that rout, rooting in vales.

In the love field, shadows are writhing with clouds,
Underthings of truthful sun, weightless in the skies,
Pilgrim eyes are watered upon entering this proud
Watercraft of blossom blowing up mad secularity.

To spy upon such sprite loveliness we are lost,
Strangers all, the mindful beauties giving scents,
Luminous pupils tearing high into eyes of gods,
The painted harmonies chime, fixed in the lent,

Tithes of rain and sun shower, raise bloom of tower
Cathedral where dead plains are ribbed from ash
And brazen head of stranger is schooled by flower,
In moments fled from city stalls of steel and glass.
.

.
Of the unaware dreamers,
Hearts are held breathless
In mid air, shunted in light
Below lips that lie a bed,
Hairs stand on ends break
Drowning with eyes shut,
The flesh that burns cold
Knows only heats of mind
And dreams smothering,
Like so few words alive.

In the love room blankets
Reveal dark in coverings,
The fingers tally bone dry,
Touch, chafed and strafed
Like nails sanded and cut,
Two hearts so long gone,
Untethered, playing foul,
Both agreeing in isolation
That death has two smiles
Frowned, in the love room.

We stalked and ran with endless time,
Knee deep in rains of muck, grew lost
In tails of the always new, overreached
By trammeled spots, dotting, red wings
From black birds, knobby toads, garter
Snakes that shocked, marigold swamp
And we bolted above ruddy moccasins,
As ever wet, holey, dying for new days,
Gleaming in the swelters of the horse-
Fly sun, in the giants' grasses, we were
Heroes by the falls of light, glow, dusky
Bold, joys travail and dewy eyes echoed
With sprite flashes by the flies that fired.
And all our conquests— writ in the wind.

We stalked and ran with endless time,
Knee deep in rains of muck, grew lost
In tails of the always new, overreached
By trammeled spots, dotting, red wings
From black birds, knobby toads, garter
Snakes that shocked, marigold swamp
And we bolted above ruddy moccasins,
As ever wet, holey, dying for new days,
Gleaming in the swelters of the horse-
Fly sun, in the giants' grasses, we were
Heroes by the falls of light, glow, dusky
Bold, joys travail and dewy eyes echoed
With sprite flashes by the flies that fired.
And all our conquests— writ in the wind.

.
We stalked and ran with endless time,
Knee deep in rains of muck, grew lost
In tails of the always new, overreached
By trammeled spots, dotting, red wings
From black birds, knobby toads, garter
Snakes that shocked, marigold swamp
And we bolted above ruddy moccasins,
As ever wet, holey, dying for new days,
Gleaming in the swelters of the horse-
Fly sun, in the giants' grasses, we were
Heroes by the falls of light, glow, dusky
Bold, joys travail and dewy eyes echoed
With sprite flashes by the flies that fired.
And all our conquests— writ in the wind.

My love is kept, and I have nailed
Her face to mine in a box of sleep,
A chamber for lost chances, subtle
Visitations, concrete emanations,
Somnambulistic signs and mercies
Elation, we walk through meadows
Of the mending sun, sweetly chaste,
Ever deep into the wandering shift,
That tearing time and moon allows,
Real as dream, to the lands of night.

My love is kept, and I have nailed
Her face to mine in a box of sleep,
A chamber for lost chances, subtle
Visitations, concrete emanations,
Somnambulistic signs and mercies
Elation, we walk through meadows
Of the mending sun, sweetly chaste,
Ever deep into the wandering shift,
That tearing time and moon allows,
Real as dream, to the lands of night.

My love is kept, and I have nailed
Her face to mine in a box of sleep,
A chamber for lost chances, subtle
Visitations, concrete emanations,
Somnambulistic signs and mercies
Elation, we walk through meadows
Of the mending sun, sweetly chaste,
Ever deep into the wandering shift,
That tearing time and moon allows,
Real as dream, to the lands of night.

My love is kept, and I have nailed
Her face to mine in a box of sleep,
A chamber for lost chances, subtle
Visitations, concrete emanations,
Somnambulistic signs and mercies
Elation, we walk through meadows
Of the mending sun, sweetly chaste,
Ever deep into the wandering shift,
That tearing time and moon allows,
Real as dream, to the lands of night.

My love is kept, and I have nailed
Her face to mine in a box of sleep,
A chamber for lost chances, subtle
Visitations, concrete emanations,
Somnambulistic signs and mercies 
Elation, we walk through meadows 
Of the mending sun, sweetly chaste,
Ever deep into the wandering shift,
That tearing time and moon allows,
Real as dream, to the lands of night.

My love is kept, and I have nailed
Her face to mine in a box of sleep,
A chamber for lost chances, subtle
Visitations, concrete emanations,
Somnambulistic signs and mercies
Elation, we walk through meadows
Of the mending sun, sweetly chaste,
Ever deep into the wandering shift,
That tearing time and moon allows,
Real as dream, to the lands of night.

.
My love is kept, and I have nailed
Her face to mine in a box of sleep,
A chamber for lost chances, subtle
Visitations, concrete emanations,
Somnambulistic signs and mercies
Elation, we walk through meadows
Of the mending sun, sweetly chaste,
Ever deep into the wandering shift,
That tearing time and moon allows,
Real as dream, to the lands of night.

My love is kept, and I have nailed
Her face to mine in a box of sleep,
A chamber for lost chances, subtle
Visitations, concrete emanations,
Somnambulistic signs and mercies
Elation, we walk through meadows
Of the mending sun, sweetly chaste,
Ever deep into the wandering shift,
That tearing time and moon allows,
Real as dream, to the lands of night.

( Sonnet )*

In the night we are twined shades,
Shadows on the wall, for dances,
The moon in deep groves of sky,
Sweeps us to the childhood land.

With eyes, lodged in beat of sand,
Sometimes we listen as shadows
Travel on green stems into flower
And all the petals and bulbs ring.

There is music in a night garden,
Lambs, dozy lost, counting notes
To fingers, rapt in skinned bodies.

In sleep never the stars outshine
What sparks we drive under lids,
Even shadows are leaved doors.

A tin cat plays guitar on the fires mantle,
The Eiffel tower is knitted to the wall
And trade paper books are loosely strewn,
Dropped about the french coffee table.
The poet, pearling with snowcapped eyes,
Filtering words on ivory keys he knows
The burled wood piano is not yet playing.

A tin cat plays guitar on the fires mantle,
The Eiffel tower is knitted to the wall
And trade paper books are loosely strewn,
Dropped about the french coffee table.
The poet, pearling with snowcapped eyes,
Filtering words on ivory keys he knows
The burled wood piano is not yet playing.

.
A tin cat plays guitar on the fires mantle,
The Eiffel tower is knitted to the wall
And trade paper books are loosely strewn,
Dropped about the french coffee table.
The poet, pearling with snowcapped eyes,
Filtering words on ivory keys he knows
The burled wood piano is not yet playing.

A tin cat plays guitar on the fires mantle,
The Eiffel tower is knitted to the wall
And trade paper books are loosely strewn,
Dropped about the french coffee table.
The poet, pearling with snowcapped eyes,
Filtering words on ivory keys he knows
The burled wood piano is not yet playing.

A tin cat plays guitar on the fires mantle,
The Eiffel tower is knitted to the wall
And trade paper books are loosely strewn,
Dropped about the french coffee table.
The poet, pearling with snowcapped eyes,
Filtering words on ivory keys he knows
The burled wood piano is not yet playing.

IN THE POOL OF THE LOST MAIDEN SONG

                1

Down in the shrouded wood a wanderer walks
And dreams the dreamers story he has lived.
Sidled by the stream that sheds blue waters
By the beds, trailing the rail of loves unknown
Kiss and a voice that conjures truest bliss,
Down in the drink where sweet Ophelia sleeps;
In the pool of the lost maiden song.

And the dreamer, he is dreaming . . .
Hair, that ropes the stoic man upon his mount.
Hair, making souls’ lost ending breath a shout,
And hair that weighs the wind, teaches it to sing;
Hair, wending whirlpools waving fools to dive in.


                2

Lost at land’s end the sea lions, washed-up, wail
And buzzards coast where eagles flail, rip tides
Assail and chop the collected bones they drop;
It is a chalky bone-yard break, golden escarpments
Wake and a ******’s salty sermons shake;
Where gathering ghosts glom and chide steeping,
In the pool of the lost maiden song.

And the seeker, he is seeking . . .
Eyes that turn the sands and are mirrors,
Eyes that taught the books of Alexandria,
Eyes that shook the flesh and are seers,
Eyes that lit the pyres, burned true believers.


                3

Deep in the dark wood the waters rush, hush,
Cramp, crew and creep, melodiously tread,
Trammel, and burn as furies in keeping true
The melting moon, the onerous owl, fluttering
Things, muttering wings, cones in darkness
Flings and filmy time flicks by the wayside;
In the pool of the lost maiden song.

And the lover, he is longing . . .
Love, lithe and lyric, he sees your sweeping shapes.
Peace, parsed and pained he hears the voicing gape.
Blind, bliss’d and shamed he wears the votive drapes.
Hungered, thirsted and gone; seeks your pearly gate.


                4

Out in the forest maze the jarring sun seeps
And swirls, only to roust the traveler onward
Where soon he must meet the faces in the grotto
Down in destroyed lands by the seas’ unreasoning
Chime, deep in the dark whine of the shining mermaids,
Where the doomed cry, round the navel of the world,
In the pool of the lost maiden song.

And the doomed, they are crying . . .
"****** beauty bade us, in a star crossed chrysalis,
Made us, choose a desert’s winter of loneliness.
Heed our fate and leave this valley torn of bliss;
The many millions of locust fall in ripest fields."

IN THE POOL OF THE LOST MAIDEN SONG

                1

Down in the shrouded wood a wanderer walks
And dreams the dreamers story he has lived.
Sidled by the stream that sheds blue waters
By the beds, trailing the rail of loves unknown
Kiss and a voice that conjures truest bliss,
Down in the drink where sweet Ophelia sleeps;
In the pool of the lost maiden song.

And the dreamer, he is dreaming . . .
Hair, that ropes the stoic man upon his mount.
Hair, making souls’ lost ending breath a shout,
And hair that weighs the wind, teaches it to sing;
Hair, wending whirlpools waving fools to dive in.


                2

Lost at land’s end the sea lions, washed-up, wail
And buzzards coast where eagles flail, rip tides
Assail and chop the collected bones they drop;
It is a chalky bone-yard break, golden escarpments
Wake and a ******’s salty sermons shake;
Where gathering ghosts glom and chide steeping,
In the pool of the lost maiden song.

And the seeker, he is seeking . . .
Eyes that turn the sands and are mirrors,
Eyes that taught the books of Alexandria,
Eyes that shook the flesh and are seers,
Eyes that lit the pyres, burned true believers.


                3

Deep in the dark wood the waters rush, hush,
Cramp, crew and creep, melodiously tread,
Trammel, and burn as furies in keeping true
The melting moon, the onerous owl, fluttering
Things, muttering wings, cones in darkness
Flings and filmy time flicks by the wayside;
In the pool of the lost maiden song.

And the lover, he is longing . . .
Love, lithe and lyric, he sees your sweeping shapes.
Peace, parsed and pained he hears the voicing gape.
Blind, bliss’d and shamed he wears the votive drapes.
Hungered, thirsted and gone; seeks your pearly gate.


                4

Out in the forest maze the jarring sun seeps
And swirls, only to roust the traveler onward
Where soon he must meet the faces in the grotto
Down in destroyed lands by the seas’ unreasoning
Chime, deep in the dark whine of the shining mermaids,
Where the doomed cry, round the navel of the world,
In the pool of the lost maiden song.

And the doomed, they are crying . . .
"****** beauty bade us, in a star crossed chrysalis,
Made us, choose a desert’s winter of loneliness.
Heed our fate and leave this valley torn of bliss;
The many millions of locust fall in ripest fields."

IN THE POOL OF THE LOST MAIDEN SONG

                1

Down in the shrouded wood a wanderer walks
And dreams the dreamers story he has lived.
Sidled by the stream that sheds blue waters
By the beds, trailing the rail of loves unknown
Kiss and a voice that conjures truest bliss,
Down in the drink where sweet Ophelia sleeps;
In the pool of the lost maiden song.

And the dreamer, he is dreaming . . .
Hair, that ropes the stoic man upon his mount.
Hair, making souls’ lost ending breath a shout,
And hair that weighs the wind, teaches it to sing;
Hair, wending whirlpools waving fools to dive in.


                2

Lost at land’s end the sea lions, washed-up, wail
And buzzards coast where eagles flail, rip tides
Assail and chop the collected bones they drop;
It is a chalky bone-yard break, golden escarpments
Wake and a ******’s salty sermons shake;
Where gathering ghosts glom and chide steeping,
In the pool of the lost maiden song.

And the seeker, he is seeking . . .
Eyes that turn the sands and are mirrors,
Eyes that taught the books of Alexandria,
Eyes that shook the flesh and are seers,
Eyes that lit the pyres, burned true believers.


                3

Deep in the dark wood the waters rush, hush,
Cramp, crew and creep, melodiously tread,
Trammel, and burn as furies in keeping true
The melting moon, the onerous owl, fluttering
Things, muttering wings, cones in darkness
Flings and filmy time flicks by the wayside;
In the pool of the lost maiden song.

And the lover, he is longing . . .
Love, lithe and lyric, he sees your sweeping shapes.
Peace, parsed and pained he hears the voicing gape.
Blind, bliss’d and shamed he wears the votive drapes.
Hungered, thirsted and gone; seeks your pearly gate.


                4

Out in the forest maze the jarring sun seeps
And swirls, only to roust the traveler onward
Where soon he must meet the faces in the grotto
Down in destroyed lands by the seas’ unreasoning
Chime, deep in the dark whine of the shining mermaids,
Where the doomed cry, round the navel of the world,
In the pool of the lost maiden song.

And the doomed, they are crying . . .
“****** beauty bade us, in a star crossed chrysalis,
Made us, choose a desert’s winter of loneliness.
Heed our fate and leave this valley torn of bliss;
The many millions of locust fall in ripest fields.”