We loitered for hours
in a tapestry of fields
Humongous pride
we went alone
there was so much to escape
Namely, the wind
Carrying messages of places unseen
Only by racing ahead
Could we see without hearing
The blur of what we passed
And send a wind behind us
to tell
the tales of who we were
And what we did
The future always meeting us
Like flesh at the point of a blade.
Cold
echoes
in the hall
Moon music keeps playing
when night falls
Roses wither and petals fall
God handed her the necklace
that she would use
To adorn herself
when the master called.
I look at the flowers, and remember
Lying beside him in the grass,
His eyes of green half closed,
As if dreaming.
He used to give me such thoughtful looks
As if his mind contained
Fathomless depths, filled with verdant things.
I weep now, knowing that Lucky has died.
My tears feed the flowers and grass
Where together we used to lie.
Desperate for an answer
As to whether his soul is safe,
I look up and see in the sky
A rolling retinue of cotton-like clouds.
My dog is somewhere in them
Gliding gently by.
An old man was sitting on his porch playing a lute when a young boy happened by. “Is that a guitar?” the little boy asked.
“It’s a lute,” said the old man.
“What’s a lute?”
“It’s a very old instrument. Been around since the middle ages.”
The boy looked at him, as if confused.
“Would you like to look at it?” the man asked.
“No,” said the boy. “I should get home. My mom’s waiting for me.”
“Okay,” said the man, who continued playing. He watched as the young boy made his way down the street, occasionally looking back at him, as if with wonder.
The man kept playing. His playing became stronger and more effusive. He became so entranced in his playing that he didn’t notice that the young boy had come back and was walking up the walkway toward him. Finally, when the boy was right in front of him, he noticed him. The boy stood and listened to him play. The old man didn’t stop, but felt now that he was really performing for the boy. His music poured in waves from the instrument, which now seemed to be a part of the man’s body and an extension of his mind. He closed his eyes as he played, and saw in his mind a great struggle between evil and angelic beings, a beautiful clash between bright and dark colors, and tears poured down his cheeks as he played. Finally, he finished, and opened his eyes and looked at the boy, who was looking at him, wide eyed. The man wiped away his tears.
“Why are you crying?” the boy asked.
“I have a tender heart,” said the man. “I’m old. When you get old, simple things make you cry.”
The boy seemed not to understand, though he nodded his head.
“Shouldn’t you get home?” the man said.
“Yes,” said the boy. The boy turned and walked down the steps, and the man watched him go. But halfway up the walk the boy turned around and looked once more at the man. His dark eyes looked deep, and they shimmered as if they too were filled with tears.
Out of wisdom, comes death,
And from death, a return
Wiser, more closely bound
To the earth. A fire rises
Which is not our own,
But belongs to itself
And consumes our soul
Till it is nothing but flame
Retreating from the flesh
Which grows cold.
When there is nothing left
There will be fire, and it will be
The soul.
She looked
at the rose
Perfection she thought
and drank
her wine. All flushed
with drink
her face resembled
the rose
She could not help but
think so
so she turned to the handsome man
and smiled.
We stand naked
In a dark place that’s cold
And barren and vast
Like an underground cavern.
We whisper and the sound
Echoes endlessly
Such that it becomes
A great cacophony
Wave upon wave hits us
And we regret our whisper
We wait in the newfound silence
Until we hear a faint voice
As if from far away but soon
It grows and we hear it clearly
It echoes: I am here
It says: I am with you
Though there is no light,
though it is cold
Though you can feel nothing
but the cold
Your heart begins to pound
Your blood begins to warm
Far away, in the darkness
There seems to be a
Growing light.
