When Daylight Weeps

Some dreams,

not quite nightmares --

but whose secrets

they keep --

cast shadows long, sickly,

dark, and deep

over precipices

steep . . .

so grim, so unyielding

as to make daylight

weep.

First

First, I am a musician; then, I am a poet. 

When the musician needs to speak, poetry recites the song. 

When the poetry runs breathless, the poet becomes a writer. 

When writing will not suffice, both musician and poet -- of one heart -- weep.

Currents

Bittersweet rises,

clarity warm and cool

opening doors,

gently closing others,

mirror reflecting

only what is necessary

for an instant,

glimpse of hope

mingled with sorrow

all at once,

truth's embrace

and release.

Voice from the Mist

In the car

I heard it

twenty-two years

ago

and it fit

like a glove

how it hurt

but it already hurt

so the song

was a friend

close to the heart

so close it became

part

and when that piece

broke off

I left it on the road

somewhere

in the dark

in the mist

myself an unfinished

list

tossed . . .

but tonight --

I heard it again: 

the sad, brave cry

of a bosom friend,

tormented song long estranged

speaking now

of then.

Foiled

There was some truth in that fiction. 

I saw it run down the block

and leap over a picket fence,

seeking refuge in a novelist's abode,

where it climbed through an open window

and was discovered, blunt and stout,

trying to hide behind a pen.

Broken Chains

Between sunrise
and sweet hyacinth,
April showers
and cicadas,
autumn leaves
and apple pie,
winter puddings
and rose-red Valentines,
beasts
break their chains
and water on the face
becomes
terror;
reader,
be kind . . . 
Ask the soldier
back from war,
ask the victim freed
what shadows each
in the middle of the night,
in the middle of the day --
that which will not
go away . . .
no magic to say,
only shock
to pay.

The Indestructible

Goodness --

timeless,
inviolate . . . 

itself, its own defense: 

having one,

but needing none.

Traveling through Poets

New poems, new poets --

like new houses,

each with its own special

decor . . .

some bright,

some cool,

some warm,

some dim,

some "natural,"

all vulnerable -- 

each

with his own

struggles,

regrets,

doubts,

pains. 

And so it rains

poets.

The Photo

I talk to a photo I recently met,
pondering things I can't forget. 
His eyes look back, frank and aware,
and I so much wish he were really there. 
What would he say?  I have no idea --
but with a face such as that,
I would have no fear. 
Rest in peace, dear soul
whom I never knew --
could you pray for me (?)
and I'll pray for you.

The Blackened Forest

The forest was in a rage: 

Rows of sleek black stallions lunged

through the thicket,

between the trees,

across the quiet paths

forged by decades of plodding feet --

air electric

with the passage of brute force.