On Poetry.

Here, on this cold autumn day

the wind blows every which way

and singes, gently, my face.

But it cannot erase

what this place

represents to my mind, my heart.

The lake waters, cool

to the touch; the birds,

as if by rule and such,

sing beautiful and loud.

Here, away from the crowds,

I am reminded why poetry

is the highest art.

Soon I breathe deep and depart,

hearing nothing but

the crunch of leaves

and the whispers of trees.

For What It's Worth.

I am standing at the edge of dreams.
Though they are silent, it seems.
This, in despite of my pleading.

I implore; they are unheeding.
What's more, they are
aggressive.

Oppressive, they are,
for their lips are sealed.
Leaving me nothing to wield
against the infinite space of
seeking.

No voices; no noise.
And no guidance.

So I will wait with poise. 
Soon one will speak
and recognize that
I am standing at the edge of dreams.

What I do.

It is late and things are still.
Though I am awake, turning.
Inside there is something burning.
It calls for me; it has its own will.

It must be abated
and I will be elated.

For it is the urge to write.

And write I shall.
I rise and enter the quiet. 

I start a blank page --
the urge at the level of rage --
and I begin to satiate it.

I put on music, soft,
reflective and aloft
I hear the Muse.
It tell me to not confuse
a distraction for the
idea.

I listen. Good insight.
I let the words pour.
"More, more!"
I say, to no one in
particular.

The urge slows.
I am one with the piece.
And, gradually, my
soul leaps out and becomes
one with the forever. 

It is late. I am done.
All things are still.

Whimpering.

The streets are cracked
and the skies are grey
and the people, aloof
and distant and
unknowing, sit at
home and sip
their tea while the
tall, looming trees
sway like partners
who dance in the
midst of darkness.

The wind picks up
and blows terrible,
shrieking gusts.

The smiling sun has
sunk away.

The night is upon us. 

All around, things whimper.
All around, they whimper. 

Elegy to a Flower.

Remember, friends,
to look around and
remind ourselves of what
we see. The beautiful and
first things which sing to
the soul of man have been
pushed aside as if they
were flowers crushed
underfoot by the uninterested
passerby.

Doubts have been removed
from my mind when I
look around and see what
once was a glorious and
virtuous town. Now,
blackness and darkness
pervade with great
vigor and virility. Slowly,
they consume, and they
pull all around them
into the dust, the ashes.

For soon they will
blow away with the
wind. For soon they
will become nothing
but memory. 

Hike.

The sweltering heat
beat down upon
my head
as I hiked through
the woods. 

I needed a
break from
all things and
I decided to
take a hike
to the top
of a mountain.

It was far
from my
house but
I needed
the drive.

The top
seemed
to sneer
at me as
I continued
my upward
approach.

Onward,
I said, and
I allowed
myself to
become consumed
by the quiet.

Nature, it seems,
lets one
reflect.

I moved
closer and
closer and
soon, though
I didn't realize
it, I was at
the top.

I gazed down
below. I saw
the vast valleys
and the cool
streams and,
above, I saw
the never-ending
and eternally
blue sky.

I again
lowered
my gaze and
I imagined
my soul
atop a horse,
galloping
off into the
distance --
toward comfort
and peace and
tranquility.

driving down
the road late
at night
conjures memories
which come flooding
into the mind
and
as you reflect upon
them they take on
a transcendent
quality and you think
you're back at that time
and all is well.

alas.

it was fleeting.

they fade.

and you're back
on the lonely road,
with no company
but your vehicle
and the creatures
that rest in the
woods.

one more.

i sit
outside
amidst the
cooling air
and the gusting
winds that
rustle the trees
which cast
dark, dark
shadows over
the lawns of
the houses.

all is quiet.
the streetlights
cast a pale glow
that does not
deceive. 

i sip
my drink
and i notice that
the sun,
it sets.

something new.

Purpose
cleanses the soul
like soft rains
dribbling down
from the vast
and gray sky.

It refreshes.
It guides.

For without it
the soul
begins to dry
and shrivel.
And soon,
without nourishment,
it becomes like the
desert -- cracked
and arid and full
of dust.