Always but especially in times of dark, encroaching space, my hope alights and leans on an enduring faith in the human spirit and the myriad illumined pockets of kindness and enlightened thought. They are as the stars in a night sky: escape the density of beamed artifice and they are constant; visible. For the heart sees what it looks for as much as does the mind’s lensed eye.
Dark cloud looming. Moving slowly. But it’s there. Creeping in front of the sun’s path, dimming the light, inch by inch. Will it settle? Will it stay? Will it slide on by and keep on it’s way? Is there rain
Lipped-wet, Counterfeits. Fakes neither audible nor visible. The moment dies in our hands. It was a non- happening. Silence booms destroying the palace, of dreams. I should have become the scissors. This poem is not charitable gnawing at the underlip
(1) In old time, Before the sun stopped circling around us; Before it started to work as a painter of our shadows and the shadow of time over place; Before it adopted the hobby to boil sand inside a vessel
skeletal bones in the hidden residue to escape with its fashionable decorum hidden inside there is a map a scroll to tell us where is the buried treasure turn right on interpass twelve quick left passed the brook under an
I look to the sea viral implications take me to the surf along the rocky ledge leads to an old abandoned house you hear the intense pounding of the waves outside a cobblestone walkway lines the entrance to the inclosure