Your beautiful thoughts like butterflies blow by,
With such swift colors on their fragile wings.
Some are less articulate than a sigh,
And others simply names,
of ancient songs and lovely things.
What delicate fluttering’s of escape,
as they pass beyond my grasping reach,
To leave their haunting wispy shapes,
Eluding my careful traps of speech.
And though I watch and listen and wait,
To view the colorful clouds blow through,
I’m longing for some colors escape,
To venture near my heart so true.
So maybe being a fortunate captor
Should it happen time to time,
That one be caught so trembling,
Within my mortal rhyme.
Then to you I would give in haste,
This,
my most precious find.

Someday soon I will be
A feeble old man
Dozing somewhere in the sun
When all I can do I have done
And my life is but a shattered plan
What could be better than
Dozing there under the sun?

I would grow very still
As an old stone perched on a hill
And be content with that one
Thing that has always been kind
To me the warming sun.
I may grow deaf and blind
And never hear a voice
Nor think I could rejoice
With anyone in any place
And would soon forget my face
and love only the sun.
Because when I am weary and tired,
And cannot again be fired
By any small chance of hope
The sun will then be comforting
As bird-song in the spring

Give me only the feel
Of an old and comfy chair
Out in the air
And let me rest there
Moving not
Loving not
Only dozing till my days
Might be done
There under the sun.

Solemn I sat drinking  
and never noticed the dusk fall.
I sat dreaming and never knew
it was evening that grew
Till the fresh falling stars
filled the folds of my clothes.
So drunk I arose
In search of moonlight water
To quench my solemn thirst
For just a little longer

Out of a universe of things,
Only two,
Give me any measure of peace,
The rain,
That shuts you out,
And wind,
That bears me away.

Please hush those books
of gruesome dark beasts
page after page they tremble me
They feed on my grief
with a hunger that rivals
the sadness of sudden parting.
Yet I am nowhere without them,
those beasts who never die.
They gnaw at me like oceans at shores.
Perhaps I too would be full of beasts
if not for daylight to make them lazy.
Or maybe those books only spill the blood
Of those beasts of grief they would conceal?