Rumors of Light

Moonbeams spill over the lawn
Hornets are sleeping
Bare limbs in the orchard
Are keeping their promises hidden

An old owl is sharing his wisdom
The creatures of the forest understand
But I am just a mere human
Their secrets elude me

Still, I am soothed
Morning’s light is a whisper
Too distant to comprehend
This night is made for dreaming.


washed to new-slate-gleam
by driving rain,
the air this morning
whistle clean and shining
like a schoolboy’s face.

No moon,
no stars, no breaking sun;
the clock says night is done,
the sky is undecided.
Trees, bare-branched and brave,
crave raindrops
like royalty craves gems.

Each blade of grass,
each limb, wears diadems
of diamonds.
Scents of morning
swathe the day with energy:

Melting Clocks

Crickets at twilight, frog calls from the pond…
My ears are so used to the sounds of summer
the silence is thundering,
It falls like a hard rain on my parade.

Though maples wear flame,
there’s frost on the ground,
Time creates its own conflagration,
Dali’s clocks no longer seem so surreal.

Summer has gone, a leaf flickers and falls;
its whisper already  a memory
for those days that are wrapped
in  the silence of snow.

In the end, the clock always wins out.
No matter how harsh the winter,
eventually the ice will melt
and time will continue.

A Day in the Sun

Free from chaos, the id is an oasis
where muses soar and castles stand tall,
immune to tides,
even to tsunami.

When troubles take hiatus, onion turns to flower,
Petals peel in layers until the heart is bared
and psyche sheds its chains
as if by magic.

How glorious that day of sun when every soul has wings,
Gorgeous rainbows after storm, the meadow green
and blossoming with butterflies
free from drab cocoons

The Poet as Miner

Oh, Muses, rarer
than low sulfur coal, you stand
apart, a stretch for poets
to make connection,
an endeavor

like any miner’s industry.
A prayer the pen will find
the mother-lode and then
be able to bring it
to the surface.

Too deep, too shallow,
a tapped out vein, words
are not coming. Axe in hand
we hack through hard rock
hoping to find diamonds.