More Words, More Views

It's finally Friday. I love Fridays.


Second Beach, Washington

Stone sentries resist the waves;
sea stacks mire off the coast, remains of
sedimentary rock fused to the continent
during a torrid past life.

As the Ice Age and glaciers melted,
rising seas slice off all but the most
stubborn crag.

Nature never forces her magic.

[(c) 1999]

Words That Appear Timeless

Someday all of these meanderings will come to something and I will be vindicated. Until then, I dream.

When time again resigns itself to fail

Rekindle
the violet to the very
lady's-slipper
--- W.C. Williams

Choose how to close this day and then begin to alter
all the recipes for a setting sun, dip slowly into
oranges and blues ---- clear out the shadows.
Rekindle night by a fairy's wand

replacing snow with snow and rain with rain;
throughout the virgin meadows, grasses grow
to reach beyond the stars ---- if light is thought
and thought is brighter here; the violet to the
very end wilts

in a passionate way, smiling through pain
and time's most recent failure to recall the
meaning of itself ---- a lady's slipper
pause to cry.

[(c) 1998]

Another Day, Another Poem

Feeling better today. Did actual work around the house. Still haven't ventured far. Another one from the vault.

Confessions by a Youthful Killer

Your laughter hurts.
I cry but
no one offers comfort.
Outcast in a mass of faces
looking past
tomorrow.
Coats the cover truths
remain imprinted after
words and films
depicting death fade
into joyous springtime
flowers, growing into
weeds unnoticed.
Out of sight to suns
and moons, but not
to bits and bytes,
instructions told all
listening to demonic
rise to fall;
past caring for our life,
past hoping for redemption,
in place of tears, we
laugh and
shoot and
blow up what
we cannot have.
Acceptance.

[(c) 1999]

Been Sick

I've been coughing up both my lungs the past two days. During a lull in the action, I'll post.

At Midnight, We Waltz upon the Roses

You look but sixteen as we drift
among the roses set off by

moonlight. A pirouette begins
this sacred dance; lost spirits hover by as

ghostly images resolve to lie among
fool nature's clock. A kiss is but a rose

forgotten in the darkest dew; respect
it's love, for you will see the bright

of day enclosed by petals soft and
those (more sweet) withdrawn.

[(c) 1998]