Who is to blame,
for my secret disarray,
like many patterns dyed
in summer fields of color?
Not I,
Who hides my grief,
In deeper shades of gray.
Just let the winds of sky
blow shut a cloudy passage,
that I might keep wisely then,
My many shades of sorrow,
behind me for a while.

Please accept my apologies
for pretending to not know you
If I knew you too much
I couldn’t help that either
I cannot accept this choice
in my double-edged world.

Doe eyes closed and lashes lovely
with parted lips you lay,
Darkened waves on white pillows
spread your unbound hair,
Awake, I watched your sleeping face
Finding perfect beauty in the slow breaking day.
And then I knew that love had passed my way.
As the soft morning glow shown on your face
Within its light I saw your true grace
that beneath my fingertips touched.
Then came that glorious music in my heart,
And I wept that this love,
Had been granted to one such as I.
This love that gave her heart and soul to me.
And she while radiant in the early outburst of dawn,
Slept on, as a breeze swept through the room
With the smell of green June,
And I imagined flowers for her hair.

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.

The night,
Sometimes it haunts you.
But I’ve always felt a kinship
with the night.
Always could I bare my soul
to that dark liquidity
and drink deep red wine,
Until the moon shed tears of stupidity
All for my simple thoughts delight
For moonlight is gentle,
With tears unassuming.

Oh, but out there,  
where I might float with ghosts
In ethereal air.
Amid darkened landscapes
of purple and blue

The night
It belongs to the poets
To the writers the artists and the lovers.
they are the ones who truly understand
the vast darkness and breadth
of its colorless depth.
For often it is mirrored
in their soulful eyes and lovers’ cries,
It is a wonderfully mysterious thing,
The night,
Sometimes it haunts you.

Some of them met you
A few remained hidden
in their stretched-out tracings of time

Some harbor revenge
or plot their escape
as they run ruthlessly into their sin

Some linger lonely
at the foot of the mountains
exposed to the elements of love

Some owned your heart
Some gave it back
Some ripped it out and ate it

Stones pressing every soiled surface,
of my well-worn soles,
far and hard they have walked.

People expect so much and realize,
So little of the horrors,  
that others go through.

Does this frailty now become me?
Should it now become my weakness,
To grow old with my time?

I would say no.
Even old smiles have need,
to maintain a past happiness.

Still I listen for that hidden life
that to calls to me
hopeful healing for a well-worn soul.

Rain gone now.
Earth a wet void.
Warm night air,  
A fine summer show.
Bright moon,
Shines in my eyes.
Dreams, clear streams,
falling on stones.
Faint clouds roar,
"Who now heads home?"
The trees then answer,
"Who wants to know?"
Scenes of summer
Will never stay.
But I,
I will always remain.