October Mist

the drumbeat of a madman
courses through quickened blood.
blame it on the full moon,
this loss of logic.

the clock’s verse little matters:
not the mundane strophes of the hours
or the miniscule minutes demanding
something spatial in the midst
of so much mist.

it little matters whether lamps are lit
or stars; the key is memory,
that ancient enemy
of the absolute.



Going Home to a Quiet Town

Harbor mist circles the Methodist spire
as if seeking salvation,
then slowly drifts downward
lending a sheen to streets
cobbled in continuous mosaic.

Quiet meets the eye, the ear.
Time, passing without a sound,
weaves sentences out of silence.
Sea salt carries them out
with a kiss.

Meekly the paint curls
on white clapboards accepting
their fate. If this is punishment
for living too long, how gracefully
they age.

Hydrangeas soften the impact
of echoes. Memories merge
in the whispering breeze. Lore has it
that if you linger too long in this peace
you become one with the mist.

Demigods and Poets

Nectar of the sweetest flower,
we are sick with envy
at your scent that won’t be writ.
One taste of your perfection,
perhaps a tiny sip, less
than a humming bird would take.

Dark abyss, deep, deep
beyond the depths the mortal mind
conceives, embrace us
with your emptiness, that true
dismay of utter night where omens
overtake sight’s sense.

Pan, play your pastoral flute.
Let the music make us mist
that merges with the universe
until the echo fades
and we are invisible
except for that inner light.

Demigods and poets,
hungry beings, hard angled
and indignant, craving
transformation just once
back to the tree
from whence the lumber came.