a time of righteous dusk

the nights come to an end
as if they knew it would be soon
the days reflect of a time where
I thought I knew,
as if the growing juniper told a tale
and the briers knew as well:
it would be a tale of disillusioned whims
where a man was fated to be fell,
where his thoughts were believed to be the best
yet his action were hard to tell
deep within the quagmire of his looming intellect
within the confines of his chimera soul
riped a notion which came to be told
the pauper that was quaint in the eyes
of those whom dismissed
became the trepidation of their lives
after all he was cultivated by societies
need of reflection of themselves
and who could relate to whom
the juniper would tell.

lover’s cross to bear

if I wrote a love song would you love me like him
If I swore to love without sinful pretention would you be with me
I know I am short when compared to him
For you he hung upon cross, and I write songs that can’t be sung
If I calm the rapids and humbled my ways unto the sea
Would you love only me upon this earth
I can’t heal the sick and comfort the poor
For they are me and I know I am no prophet
If I sang you that love song what would it mean
If I laid down my life for you my friend
would I then become more than that in memory

the weight of actless

such an end seems inevitable
the hound of loneliness haunts my nights
every well of sorrow I return to deepen
the overcast of a brighten day brings solace
and the chilled wind of the evening makes me whole:
suffering is what man does best,
one must live in defiance of the cruelty of nature’s sadistic whims
to rise and live upon a solemn spirit that which lovers denied
is an act of patriotism of the undying mind

the provincial

the late buss leaves the crowded
downtown heads past the cliché coffee shops
full of community college philosophers
stopping near the court house before venturing
over a war time bridge.

The last buss is often crowded going out
to the bay and the reservation;
the children fill the seats as a single mother
and her friend keeps a subtle eye,
the driver calling out the streets
while work laden drivers pass by.

After the bus leaves the last grocery store or route
It heads into my part of town, sitting outside of the limits
A place where the sheriffs know too well,
Some houses are well kept, and others not so much
A neighborhood of many apartments, housing the working class
And the criminals too.

The buss fills a little more as my humble home
comes close: a one bedroom apartment
with detached garage near the bay but also
the airport and interstate, down the road my church
and the cement factory next to the small mechanic shop,
and up the road the supermarket and a little further a girl I once knew,
it’s all a provincial elegance to an existence that suits me quite well.

night tryst of the lonesome guest

The moonlight seeps within the sea
The stars manifest like notes upon an indigo sheet
thus arrives the sweet adulation of my love for thee
It is a bequest from the night that you lay upon my mind
A vaporous image of thee and a reminisce of your touch.
As the wild boar for food, my heart wants as much
As the tics of time upon escalating hours go by
I dare not sleep, yet as most mornings arrive
As a waking dream always of you by my side

morning upon the feilds

As the moon draws back on the velvet night sky
The caressing wind serenades the fields of wheat
As the stars fade like dreams upon the edge of night
I soon come to know why my heart beats so slow
In the hours where I know nothing more than my own breath
Where the solace has reaped my vision and I seem to have nothing less
and as the quarter turns of the clock soon and quickly go by
the morning climax has begun to end and I rise from my bed
and the pedestrian ways of life begin

love upon a dying wish

falling crests of dreams gone by
a climax of thoughts leaves you blind
a thousand cherubs silence their horns
and the sirens claim to sing no more

The fact of broken sight of futures delight
Is not why I morn for the loss of thee
It is the crippling solitude upon the march
Of loneliness’s fated grim keepers hand

Love me not of which I spoke to thee
Love me for I am here to be set free
I am but a grain of sand upon the ocean of eternity
If love me not then let me be swept in waves of the restless sea

once I was, now no more

My yonder years are mirage in fear
My tenacious life of youthful delusion
Has manifested a complexity of thought
That time is as irrelevant as truth,
I see my youthful delights that I lived by
were mirrored of my future being
that in itself they were and are but one instance
and that even the Lord sees a day as a thousand years,
then what I am is a vapor waiting to appear
only to fade in reverence of whom had put me here,
as if death was salubrious and life was the wound
and beauty a painter illuminating the canvas of my soul
thus love was her muse,
and the painting is life when this one is through

waking upon a dream’s delight

What beauty could ever remain
From a heart so jaded by change
Although deep my soul cries,
yet upon a summer’s eve
my sight basks upon a sight
thus my heart sings a chorus
from it’s true being
that is hidden from most,
and out of nil it spoke:
You are the sunshine upon the leaves
The gentle wind upon the eaves
You are the sight beheld my soul
My every wonder, my love untold,