, ,

Tis a ghost of an image that comes to my mind
An almost but not quite visual
Like a partial reflection in a night time pond
Far more like something subliminal
Just a fleeting glimpse, a flash then gone
As I try but cannot quite remember
Even though if I have opened my eyes
It stands solid before me, my muse


These are the men



These are the men that built the tunnels
The bridges
The highways
These are the men that built the cities
The airports
The cars
These are the men who did the farming
Beside their wives
And their children
When you were born this country was here
Because they’d built it
With their sweat
These are the men in their advanced years
Some with walkers
Some with wheelchairs
Show them some respect

The Oak Tree


, , ,

He looked at the oak
Ancient it was
Its girth so broad that if hollow
He could have stood within
His arms stretched out
And not touched it

At first he knew not why it seemed so important to him
Why it had caught his attention
What had made him lose his breath
In a gasp of wonder
But then
A cloud crossed the sun’s path
And in the shadowlight
He saw it

Not it
Seeming frozen in time
Magically grown from the tree surrounding her
Her arms stretched high to become the two main branches
Her legs flowing into the trunk
So her feet were lost in the roots
Her hair leaves and moss
Sage green
Holly green
Mistletoe green
Her face only seeable in the shadowlight
Eyes closed
Or long dead
He did not know

It unnerved him
How real she looked
As if she were a dryad
In the day sun

She could not be real
A figment of his imagination
A creation of his mind
That in his youth
Had been fertile grounds for myths and fairytales
She was a beautiful will of the wisp
A piece of his imagination
A gift of beauty given for him to see
So he smiled
And went back to work

He raised his axe
Ready to start the cutting
Sad to lose this incidental beauty
But knowing the tree was not his
Only the job to cut it down was

He braced his legs
Swung back his arms
Started the forward swing

And saw her eyes open
She looked at him
And screamed




I hear you calling me
Reaching out to me
Simmering possibilities
You touch me
Seeking my attention
SInging a siren song
You entice me
Tease me
The way a breeze
Plays with the grasses
The way a wind interacts
In a dance with a flag
The way the ripples spread in water
Touching all
Without a word
Tomorrow’s child
You beseech me
Draw me out
In ways yet unknown

Night’s Sorrow


, , , , , , ,

And he howls

In memory

Of something he can’t quite remember


Can never forget

The echo filling the sky

In a way no other wolf

Ever could





No matter how many wolves sang

Under the light of that oh so full moon





He was lonely

In singularity


For there were no others like him


He sang without harmony

There were none to sing with him

For he was the last

Of the lycanthrope

Elven Lament


, , , , , ,

When he first saw the elven maid he said she’d won his heart
He told her he would die inside if ever they would part
She said that she would go with him and mortal she would be
Unless a day would come that his hand hit her one, two, three

She knew not why but understood this was her peoples’ way
Third time a human husband strikes is the leaving day
Together they were happy a couple young in love
They seemed to suit each other like a hand will suit a glove

There came a day he saw her singing to the orchard wood
Enticing it to grow in ways that only faerie could
In fear she would be caught and dealt with in the human fashion
He hit her for the first time: once was in passion

There came a day he felt the ox could work a little harder
And so he hit with a whip so that it would pull farther
She tried to stop him doing it, whips aren’t the faerie way
Upset, her hit her with it: anger being second’s way

There came a night he’d drinking been in the nearby inn
She was still up when he came home for reasons he couldn’t fathom
He never thought of what she might have wanted to share with him
He simply felt a rage and then third time emerged from within

Something he’d not cared to ask and so had never known
She had been with child that day, one to call her own
For faerie human coupling a child is rather rare
His child died that very night when he had ceased to care

Next day he was out to work like any other day
But that night he came home to find that she had gone away
On the table she had left a sadly worded note
And he did weep when he did read the words that she had wrote

Once might be by passion driven
Twice in a moment of anger, forgiven
But once there is rage, and you choose to grab it
Then leave I must, for it’s become habit

He searched for her near he searched for her far
He found not a trace of her anywhere
As for her, she now knew the rule of three
Had reason, though still her tears flowed free

For once had been by passion driven
Twice had been anger which she had forgiven
But rage was the point where she had to leave it
Because it meant hitting her had become habit
And she was no longer safe

Someone Stole her Bike



The wild bikes used
The cover of darkness
In the last summer storm
Of the season.

They crept into her yard
Under thunder deep howling
And enticed her sweet bike
To give chase.

It followed
The tease of it giving it a thrill
They led it out
Into the wild
And it was gone
Lost in the mist
In the midst
Of the wildlings.

It was a good bicycle
And now
She will miss it.

Street Musician


, , , , , , ,

When I first passed her

Whatever she was playing on her sax
Sounded more discordance than tune
She was not very good
From nerves or lack of skill
Who knows?

I knew
What it was she played
In the Hall of the Mountain King
A piece I’ve always loved
And I remembered

I probably would be playing just as badly
If I was standing where she was
And I can’t even play the sax
It took a lot of guts

So I changed my thinking
Took my change from my wallet
Smiled at her
And dropped change in her hat



, , , , ,

The gods saw man
Weak in his mortality

They pitied him

Thus they taught
Sending knowings
And gifts
On the wind
Telling of the approaches of beasts
Carrying voices of allies
Holding aloft the seeds
Of what would become the food
The trees
So that man could care for them
About them
Eat them
Live midst them
Sharing the world
Thus did they give to man


Man cut down the trees
Slew all the beasts

Forgot all the knowings he had been given


In his egocentricity

He proclaimed himself the equal to the Gods
And screamed at them
Within the wastes he had created

And the gods screamed back