The Voyage



Distant and void,

Frigid and alone,

Far from where they started,

Yet no closer to where they’re meant to be,

Are two lonely little spacecraft

Tasked with filling the silent spaces between the stars

With the riotous song of the human dream,

Themselves dreaming of an ending,

A point in space and time

When they can rest,

And where they can find themselves spinning

Around some distant star unlike our own

On a collision course,

A billion years from now,

When humanity is but a ghost,

Echoing, lonely and lost,

Around the epicenter of a stage called Earth,

On which their song was sung,

Upon which their battles were lost and won,

From whose green and blue depths

 They launched two small voyagers

Just to say,

“We were here.”


The Elements



The mountains pass

With the most stillness,

But the trees, they are

Such transient passersby,

Such fleeting parts of our lives,

Fleeing so quickly from view,

As if running on fleet-footed feet,

From some flagrant forest fire,

Far from here, and smokeless, too,

Cold, by now, ashes at most,

And scattered ones at that;

And of the human element?

The houses, the streets?

They, too, pass with rapidity,

Save they are not running, but rather

Are static, yet not unchanging –

Flaring and fading, then falling

Into the complete and utter abandon

Of ruination.

The Farmer Who Tugs at His Shoots



I can relate

To the farmer who tugs at his shoots –

You know the one –

He’s always out there in the lengthening shadows of dusk,

Pulling up his corn and his wheat

A handful of weeks after the planting season,

He tugs and he tugs,

Trying his level best

To turn the tide of time in his favor,

Dreaming of an early harvest,

And all the blueberry wine he’ll be drinking

As he watches the more patient, prudent farmers begin to toil at their fields

Just as he is finishing up for the season.

He pulls and he pulls,


To outrun the clock,

As if only by outdoing himself, he can make those fearsome shadows

Shrink back into their noon-day stations,

The sun hovering at its zenith,

Not inching forth in her orbit,

But rather bending to his wills,

Never moving,

Just shining there, everlasting.


Yes, I can relate to the farmer

Who tugs at his shoots –

You know the one –

He does not see

That his crops will not grow

In such light,

That they would wither and die in the heat at the height of the twelfth hour;

Nor does he see that the hands uprooting the fruits he has sown are his own,

Not until he is in the thick of the waste and the rot,

The dying plants returning to a more worthy steward

As Earthward-bound they go;

He does not know

That there are other things to see,

That between the sowing and the reaping,

There are rewards

For the one who watches,

For the one who waits.


Yes, indeed;

I can relate.

The Dew



The dew that dazzled me this morning

Is gone,

So I was wondering if


You’d want to go back,

With me,

To when it was still shining,


A tiny drop of the ocean


To this terrestrial world,

Fast fading,

Yet glinting and glimmering in the sun

As if

It had nowhere else in particular to be.