A Robin Singing on a Limb

 For the sake of love
And love alone,
No  other aim,
No measure of return,
Just love,
There lives a spark
That does not die
Nor fade to ember,
Nor rise to flame.
Such is
the gentle force within,
Such is the peace
When chaos reigns,
It is for love
That flowers bloom
And, yes, for love
That songbirds sing.

That Revolution

not just the harsh winter
nor the soldats that must be dodged,
not even the icy streets crowded
with frozen, empty faces,

not just the hunger or the quest
for a crust of moldy bread,
more than thud of blade on some
exquisite architecture turned firewood,

there was no tweet or twitter,
no facebook to spin the web of plot…
it was no digital war,  that Revolution
where poets were put against a wall

and shot as enemies of the state,
promiscuous, those times of need,
when squalor fed the flames
of lust and one made choices

based on fear with little hope
and less trust, when lettered men
chose to tie their own noose
rather than face life in the gulag

and literature lost the innocence
of simplicity in those darkened rooms
where poets gathered, speaking carefully,
knowing someone among them might be a Judas


I wonder if the Boston bombing would have happened
without the benefit of the Internet and the convenience
of facebook and the like, and  if the ‘digital terrorists’  exist
because of an ideology or because we have  a sub-culture
of computer geniuses who have grown  bored with killing
characters in a computer game.

Tonight the Moon

More than a lemon slice
too long consumed in silence,
there was a magnificent burst of light;
tides responded with a natural surge.
Even the most enigmatic,
the most mystical of magics,
can not live within itself forever
and so, tonight
the sky is brilliant
with its bloom.

At the Shore

First streaks of sun are silking the sea with pink,
Sand captures every footprint and releases it
to the tide. Across the way I see another early riser
sipping coffee and gazing through infinity; the resident
dolphins are known for leading minds beyond time.
Sandpipers scribe the sand with tweets and tracks,
Some future generation will spend hours
deciphering the hieroglyphic patterns.
Most of their conclusions will be wrong.
Cattails wave and nod; delighted, it would seem,
for early morning company. From somewhere in their midst
a bullfrog tries his voice. It appears to suit him
for he repeats the call and first thing you know
a million tiny sounds emerge from the grasses.
A front row seat to their symphony
is bought with this early morning rising.
The tide comes in, washing caked-on sand from toes
but never from my heart.


Starry Night in Paler Shades of Blue

They show their truths
in shades,
I’ve seen Starry Night
in pale blues
and bolder indigos.
I no longer know
its true color.

For those who see it
only once,
right or wrong,
they are the blessed,
They know…
No thought of questioning
the tones.

I think of van Gogh
already half-mad
from his quest for perfection.
I wonder what he’d think
seeing his Night photoshopped
to lighter shades
of blue

to suit someone else’s mood,
or maybe
their décor.

All the Tiny Spaces

Blue Spruce shadows
whisper on the wind at twilight,
A sparrow whistles timeless tunes;
the echo circles, expands,
lullabys the evening
with song and the sound
of the porch swing.
As the hour deepens
a hundred varied voices
gather in
all the tiny spaces.
The day settles back
to sleep.

The Elf that Kept Dreams

The elf wore winter away with a smile,
He turned back the storm clouds
and the rain for awhile
as he tripped through the forest
and whistled a tune
with a hop and a skip
and a wink at the moon.

All dressed in green velvet
and fine ruffled shirt,
he wore a tall top hat 
to take the eye from his girth.
Ever so happy just as he was,
Aunt Matilda tended to worry and fuss,
“Eat right dear nephew, don’t tip the tankard too much,
keep your fare simple, avoid rainbows and such.”

He would just hug her, and she would just sigh, 
’cause Aunt Tildie knew he dreamed of the sky. 
He put on his boots and his tight fitting jerkin,
then off to the forest where the pine trees
touched heaven.  High in the limbs
where no one but he and one wise old owl
were able to see, he had a small chest full
of magnificent  things,

Not even the owl was allowed
a look inside, for that’s where his tickets
to rainbows would hide.  Close your eyes
little one and soon you will see
that magical box in the tall pine tree, 
In your innocence, you’ll realize
that you hold the key to the magic inside. 
Just by believing you can open the lid
on moonbeams and dreams
and magical rainbows
to pillow your head.