Nowhere

Truth stammered

at great cost,

sweat and sorrow mingling,

yet so often

lost

to that place where words

are meaningless --

where hearts have turned

to frost. 

Slant of Sun

Humor and melancholy intertwine

like lacy tendrils on a vine

expressing themselves, each in his way,

obscured, at times, by shadows at play. 

Wild Sorrow

Wild sorrow, exile,

you grow in the dense thicket

ripe with thorns. 

Prickly leaves are yours,

hanging heavy with

all the loves ever loved alone,

all the words never uttered,

pangs of longing

useless to the busy world,

a world unsuspecting

of the million secret deaths within

caused by wild sorrow

and its piercing, untamed fruit,

the thorn.

The Sweet Diana

By love begotten 

By love forgotten 

The way of broken dreams 

With tears besodden 

By pain downtrodden 

Fame isn't what it seems.

Hues of Purple

Purple clouds of sorrow

rain over story 

felled,

old weather-worn tree

plunging to

to forest's floor,

soundless

for lack of

hearers.

Incense Rising

When people do not care

as we wish they would,

there is nothing to do,

nowhere to go

to escape the empty void

of hopes gone up in smoke.

We must simply stand there --

no use flinching --

and let the void shower its nothingness upon us,

the scent of charred dreams

heart's incense rising to Heaven

with the mute prayer,

"Please, let this not happen again."

And, somehow,
in that mysterious place
between incense and ashes,
we begin to
survive.

As It Is

No privileged view have I

but nature, sun, and sky.

In truth, I know so little.

Doors open and close;
when they close, I cry --

Sad punchline to each riddle.

Silent Sorrows

There are sorrows never broached,

yet they exist . . .

shadows passing over a face,

sadness behind a smile.

These unspoken things

have their place,

for if they're in man's heart,

they matter.

Art's Irony

Sorrow trumps comfort

and riddles remain 

whether I favor dash or dot.

Words people the page

(be they wise or strange) --
while the poet matters not.

Dual Effect

Torment thick,

and it's raining within . . .

round, heavy drops

pelting my heart,

sobs erupting over

grave games
played

with words,

weaponry subdued

but, at the same time,
not.

Words to a Departing Cathedral

Goodbye,

aged and blessed cathedral

where, by His touch,

deacon voices sprang alive,
where, under His gaze,
little candle-bearer upheld his flame

(wax dripping on his head),
from whose dim and dusty loft

ancient prayers took flight in song

(soaring past St. Martin de Tours on the high glass,

winging upward toward the dome),

whose pealing echoes

bore heart's secret notes

to the Prisoner

freed
by consecrated hands.