Lost Art

I took a rose from an artist
who didn’t think she was one.
It was inked on snowy paper
That was waiting to crumple
With all the others in waste-bin,

And I thought of museums
Never filled because the hands
That drew also crumpled.



One look and my apparel
becomes a box within
your mind, I fall down
and hide behind a label.

I grow smaller as the cardboard
morphs to wood to concrete
image of all I do, believe, am.
All that I wearing is a sign
understood, writing on the box.

You know my kind,
You know me.
The lid shudders shut.

Five seconds and my face
has vanished into some
corner of the enclosure.
I haven’t even said a word,
and now my voice is trapped
where you will never hear it:
safe in sound-proof


There are story lines in minds
More memorable than memory
More real than lived reality.
We are all written to stumble after
Faulty fantasy but never catch it,
For this is the brokenness of imagining:
The very moment we see clearly
The look, the face, the sparkling place
It folds away into impossibility.
A door locks, there is no key.
What we inwardly live so vividly
Can never be.

(And such is mercy, really,
For we short-sighted scribes
Would stifle and shrink our souls
And bind ourselves in a tangling
Web of threads plucked from tapestry.)

To Hope,

You renegade with feathers
flying fast where I can’t follow,
free to float above reality.
You mock my anchoring gravity,
For your reckless energy can’t
Propel me up to skies not mine –
Your longings do not lift me.
Come down, calm down,
For I can’t bear to lose you yet

I know that I can’t trust you
Little songbird, flying blind.


The lamp glow scoops
a hole out of darkness
for my steps to fall into

The snow prints shadows
of my feet to remember
me by white slates broken

These are all my paths
soft strides in blurred light
trails of imprints seeking


The Night-Lights

The sun pours the moon
Half full of glow and goes –
Bundles away the blue

Robe of day to stealthily slink
Off on lavender slippers,
The moon gathers black

Blankets to warm his vigil
Waning white face watching –
One eye in the covers – as into

The inky bedclothes of the sky
– swirling twinkling sequin dust-
Dip pens to write our dreams.

Into September

Rain fine like dust sinks from sky to grass – more like a light flicker against the green hedge than something fully seen. Has it stopped yet? No, the view of the pines is screened through misty sprinkling sparkle.

The sky is winter-white and winter-cold, while the grass is summer and the leaves barely autumn. All seasons crowd in, ill at ease in each other’s company.

The flowers seem troubled, lonely for the blue above. Putting on a brave, bright face, they’re pretending the white portent will not soon disfigure them with hands of frost. They still hold a tenuous claim over these first days of September – by right this time is summer’s.

But the cold drops carry down the chill of sullen sky to kiss the brilliant petals in their beds, the cheerful blades in their vast throngs upon the lawn. Soft as feathers, they trickle down flower necks and rest on grass-blade heads, lulling summer to sleep.