As the Old Year Closes

A face
etched into my brain,
Though years have passed

it does not change,
will never change like seasons
swept along by wind.

As if decreed by some unfailing plan
that smile is caught forever in full bloom.

There will be no withering,
no fading. Brief by any timeline,
that light is locked inside my heart.

No season’s end,
not blazing sun nor icy gloom
will ever change it.

Mystery and Melancholy *


Free from reason
we remember rhetoric,

from unconscious mind
to canvas,

soft voices–
the psyche has distorted.

Did you hear
what I thought you said?

Were you there
in that deserted square
with the endlessly diminishing arcades?

Or were you some cubist fairytale?
Are you a Dali…
a Chagall…

or perhaps
just mystery and melancholy?

*Mystery and Melancholy


Painting by Giorgio de Chirico c.1914

Snowfall on a Bare Branch

And what about the branch?
Ice crusted now
sans any shade of leaf,
the song bird gone,
the feathered nest deserted.

The branch that wore the bud
of Spring:  It bore
the fruit of season’s bloom
and now it waxes barren.

But look, a million rainbows
dance in random step.
It holds them loosely
in the crystal flakes

that gaily claim their space
on its outstretched hands.
As the seasons pass
it may wear varied robes;

some fade, some fly away,
but the branch remains
essentially unchanged
no matter the weather
or fickle fashion’s trend.


Magic Pens

In the reading of a single line,
the world quiets; time becomes
another time. Boundaries ease
to markers for the journey.

A gentle touch; is it really there
or just the breeze? Fair winds
ripple in harmony, supple limbs
sway to the melody.

There is sweet music in magic pens,
sometimes a tempest, sometimes
a symphony…silver notes
like sailing ships

that brave the seas.
Stormy weather or
calm design, a journey
begins with a single line.


Only the moon sees the smokestacks
from that angle;  high above
and at a slant,  soot covered bricks
in a circle broken by time
and industrial trends.

The whistles and engines complicit
in a conspiracy of rust; the hulking machines
frozen into stillness.  Eventually blowtorches
will reduce them to their lowest
common denominator.

The flame will flare brighter with each cut
until all has fallen and the fire consumes
itself; the man-made monster
just a memory, and the moon
still smiling high above.