A Reason to Tarry

Oh, how I long to keep thee warm
With curing words, beseech the storm
Of vile suit, I'd take its mess,
Hold it back till calmed distress.

Had I the means to leave behind
Such heavy thoughts of warming kind,
I'd turn them loose upon your mind,
Stir your soul and heat you'd find,

Skittering across your skin,
Warming from within,
Where love relied on stealth
And took no risk of health,
Turned your face from chance
And fall befell romance.

Then winter, which through wrath of cold,
Dried the earth, where love consoled.
'Twas not enough to twist my path
Nor cause me worry winter's wrath.

Oh, how I long to keep thee warm
With purring words, beseech the storm.
I'd lay me down, confront the pest,
And hold it back till calmed unrest.

Meant it the means cause cold depart,
I'd give to thee my beating heart.

Tirement

My father drives a bus now,
Tips his hat to those midnight vultures,
Circling and waiting for death.

The road gets narrow as the bus rattles,
Struggling in the moonlight.

If only failure had feelings enough to taste hatred,
My life might sustain itself heartily
On that poisonous road between us.

In our dreariness, my father mistakes
The sun for the moon,
Once in - then out of - sight,
A distant light, peering through the fog.

He picks me up
But does not know my name.

• The Gardens Face the Road Home
  
  Walking home, swift as the wind,
  I pass the gardens of a friend
  who seems to wait on guard at her gate.
  
  Curious to unveil her mood,
  maybe taste that garden food,
  I greet her on that lovely lawn.
  
  Walking me through floral rows,
  she laughs as if the garden knows
  what she has brought to this sacred spot.
  
  Curious, how the wind and trees
  with softly soothing harmonies,
  would cause us to hold each other.
  
  Walking home, our day-light dims
  in smells of evening, romance swims.
  Beyond this night and it's farewell,
  I cherish how deep in love I fell.

The Beachy Road

On the beachy road

filled with golden grass,

motion in the wind

and watch your worries pass.

Keeping to the plan

and meeting them at noon,

I never would have tasted

the love I did that June.

Coming to a corner,

walking straight ahead,

listen to the wind

and wade the river bed.

Feeling too alone,

the coldness hits my feet.

I wander out the trees,

into the sun for heat.

Happening upon

an orchard down a hill,

shaded by an apple tree,

a girl with eyes to kill.

A momentary death

of portions of my sum,

I gently raise my hand,

she motions me to come.

Heavy chest and shoulders,

sunlight in my eyes,

swishing through the grass

and face to face, she sighs.

A warm bag of apples

hanging on her arm,

tight, little nose

and lips of wit and charm.

Beginning, my name is,

I stop with nothing more,

holding up her finger she

says let not us bore,

Let’s be closer

Let's be true,

Vague in nothing

We say we do,

Let’s be poets

Writing love,

History till time above.

Longing in my eyes,

I take a closer look.

With my arms around her,

we fold up like a book.

Oh, how the stars would shine,

if stars there would have been,

lighting all the signs

to bring us together again.

Hugging till the fears

lost face in time.

Folding down to sit

and love by pantomime.

Handing me an apple,

she smiles from within.

Laying under a tree,

my world begins to spin.

Ablaze with love I chatter on

about the ways I’ve been.

Across my heart my fingers dabble,

admitting every sin.

Hurting just a little,

I listen to her voice,

a life much more brittle

with pain in every choice.

Forgetting all my friends,

dreaming till at last

sleeping, warm and pleasant,

dreams that go by fast.

Was it in the morning

or later in the day?

I awoke with emptiness,

an orchard filled with gray.

Can’t believe she’s gone,

standing up I see

she left me several apples,

or are they from the tree?

The Ghost of Forgotten Lines

It came and sat down gently on my lap,
Climbed onto the paper
And into a nap.

In softest voice, twice I told my brother,
Who calmly suggested
I write another.

• Moonlight
  
  by Paul Verlaine
  
  Your soul is a chosen landscape
  Charmed by masquers and bergamasquers,
  Playing the lute and dancing, and almost
  Sad beneath their whimsical costumes,
  
  Even as they sing in the minor mode
  Of triumphant love, and a life of good fortune,
  They don't seem to believe in their happiness,
  And their song blends with the moonlight,
  
  With the still moonlight, sad and lovely,
  Which sets the birds in the trees to dreaming,
  And makes the fountains sob with ecstasy,
  The tall slim fountains among the marble statues.

I Walk and Waste

The air on Spaulding’s farm,

Like haiku music,

Vibrates with a spirit

Of patience and wonder.

I walk along a cartpath,

Into the woods.

I find that all I need

Is the sun,

That servant to sound,

This pleasuring-ground.

As these woods peer into muddy pools,

Perhaps searching the reflection of the skies,

I listen and dream of their families,

Silently weaving generations of arboreal-labor.