and their ashes will blow away




The old photographs

Tell a story like he could never;

They’ll keep your secrets,

Those long departed who needn’t hope to die;

And they’ll smile – frown –  sit, pensive,

Or be caught in a moment of ecstasy eternal,

Until the day he tires of their ceaseless, immortal existence –

Then, he’ll build a bonfire on the beach and

Pale, ruinous flame will lick and flick at their edges –

Their smiles will curl one last time, and be gone,

And their ashes will blow away,

Still burning.






I saw you, yesterday,

Holding a rose as our lives converged

For one fleeting moment;

And I knew it was not for me,

But imagined it was,

There in the tunnels,

Where the clouds of our breath followed us

Into the train,

And all the way home,

A miasma from a different time, another place,

Now lost;

The world in which that moment was spawned

 Having changed, irrevocably,

For such is the nature of things,

To never stand still,

Even for an instant,

Not even long enough for me

To see the flower you didn’t pick for me

As more than a brief, blood-red blur

Of a life we will never live,

And a moment

We’ll never recapture,

Enraptured though I was,

By you,

And a red, red rose

Destined to win another woman’s heart.


Wild Thing




Pardon me,

That I may gaze upon you,

Your figure twisted into a Peaceful Warrior,

Hips stacked, body balanced, arms aligned, head high,

Staring into the face of the universe without fear,

The sunlight dappled across your skin like waves

Lapping upon the shore of my dreams,

Like a heat map that leads my eyes to yours,

Like a road flare illuminating the shadows of your soul,

And in the half light, the moment stretches, and,

Brought to the breaking point,

Sings one last warbling note on its golden lyre,

Then shatters.

More Faith than Flesh



I toss my troubles

Down the wishing well,

Watch them until they melt into the inky black,

Bid them farewell, if only for the night,

And let myself wander the alpine forests of my youth,

Where the wax seal of time

Is still warm from the pouring,

And the swaying, golden fields of life

Have only just begun to be harvested,

Where the air is redolent with the heady scent of loam

Mixed with distant traces of sea foam;

And if a tree falls in this forest,

It won’t make a sound,

So unburdened am I

That I am more faith than flesh.





There is life.


Beyond the starkness of barren trees,

Past the fallen leaves,

Just South of here,

There is life.


“Find me,”

It whispers in a silken voice,

A breathy gust of wind

Against the ear of the weary traveler.


“Seek me where the river meets her mate,

Where the autumnal trees burst back into riotous color,

Up past the mountains, where you shall find me

Worshipping at the altar of wanderer,

Hoping to be sought,

Praying to be found.”


And there She will be,

Looking like an angel,

Fallen to her knees –

“There,” you shall say,

“Is Life.”




Autumn arrived

Much in the same way it always does,

With a blustering gust of wind

And a hint of chill in the air.


It came for me

While I was asleep,

The turning of the Earth

And the motions of the Heavens

Colluding to bring about the fall

Of all those brittle, bright-colored leaves

From their summertime stations.


Fall entered stage-right, and I?

I stood, enraptured, as She came closer,

Caught utterly unawares by her presence,

Not realizing that summer had gone

Until it was already far too late

To mourn its passing.





Is misunderstood;

Beauty, she is not,

But rather

The juxtaposition

Of the immortality of God,

And the inevitable impermanence

Of all that is borne of Him;

The flower fades,

The fruit ferments of the vine,

Humanity flares up like a firework,

And, falling, sets the forest afire from afar.


The fall is not art,

But rather, the art in the fall

Can be found at the very instant

That the flaring, fading, not-yet-falling firework

Reaches its zenith,

And, cresting upon the shore of its dreams,

Can rise no more.