Fairy Garden



She still believes in fairies.


They write her notes in the garden

Populated with the homes she’s made for them,

Where occasionally a wildflower

Will bloom, bright and blue,

Half-expected, that welcome, noble guest,

Around which the fairies will dance

Forever through the night.


She’ll hear their music.


I will, too, sometimes – rarely –

Though it’ll never sound the same,

Because that is what time does to one,

Layer by layer like a sandstorm

Stripping you of every ounce of faith,

From which you once so freely drank

Of that most holy of chalices.


She drinks too greedily from that fount.


Soon, she’ll wonder why that cup,
Which once overfloweth,

Is looking emptier by the day,

Youth, she’ll lament,

Lasts but a summer.


She knows that summer is ending soon.


A Prayer



Odin’s Ravens came today

To take my measure as a man.

Is that better

Or worse

Than Zeus appearing before his cupbearer to be

In the form of an eagle?



I want to be carried away, too

And I wish to die amongst the Gods,

Yes, I want my ashes to be scattered

Across the Heavens,

So that I, too, might orbit

Some greater being than myself –

Some looming star

More steadfast than I.

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.


A Better Man Then I



I wanted to write you into a love poem,

but I had not words enough for the sorrow I felt in your arms –

hush, don’t touch, let’s not rush this thing;

God, I love her so much,

clutching her in the sea of eternity

as the darkness descended

and I defended my inch of Hell in No Man’s Land,

as dawn broke and so did I,

as the tide subsided and revealed

in morning’s pale light the wreckage of our ill-fated love –

hush, love, kiss me, now, in the red dawn;

soon, you’ll be missing me, and I you,

and the serpents will be hissing in our ears,

but for now,

kissing you on the shores where our dreams came back home if only to die,

I can’t help but thinking

in the silence and the stillness and the calm before the storm

how fucking beautiful you’d look,

in a love poem penned by a better man then I –

one whose hands are pale and bloodless,

one who can find words and world enough

to write you like an arrow,

straight and true.

Ten Thousand Distant Suns



I hope you did not hear me call your name

In the middle of the night,

When darkness fell too heavily upon my shoulders

For me to bear its weight alone.

I pray you did not witness my weakness

In the crimson dawn,

So weary was I from the waiting

That I wept as light flooded the valley.

I wonder if you saw my fall

In the strange noon-day shadows,

And if the glint of the guillotine will remain, ghost-like,

In your memory, at night, when silence surpasses all sound,

In the dark, when the weight of your guilt falls too heavily upon your shoulders

For you to bear its weight without praying for redemption,

But I cannot yet forgive,

And you will shoulder the blame as Atlas upheld the Heavens,

Weary, and with much regret.

I hope you’ll hear me calling, then, and

I pray you’ll remember my moment of triumph –

You know the one –

And one day, when night falls and our Kingdom comes,

You’ll hear the music of wild, feral drums, and

The darkness shall be lifted by the foreign light of ten thousand distant suns.

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.