Moments

I feel something's always the same,
Between the seasons of life,
The same old stories of boys and girls,
Running through the dreams at night.

And there's always that difference,
Between what we think, and what
really is. Something strange and
acquiescent of a rainy day.

The sparkles they share, like
children in the park, or birds
floating through the air, It always
feels to short, and somehow still fair.

At night with eyelids closed,
yet still aware,
he can still rest in his lazy-boy chair.

In A Few Rooms

Looking in through windows, I peer into the
standstill life of quiet houses

It is easiest to think while all alone, studying
the lives in each and every home.

All of this worlds sorrows exist within a few
rooms.

The daily struggle of earning our bread, wanting
more than a roof and bed.

But within this place I can see freedom born.
Unlike outside, on our slave paid road.

In our toil, our sorrow, our groans we may
find the cause for us all to grow.

To take this away is to dull the soul. We need
our pain, and rain, so our lives will not
meaninglessly fade away.

I ask only this, that we should be left alone.
that by our own merits succeed, or like animals
to Rome.

The Door(s)wings

I saw a swinging door, open,
today. As if no one had been
home in a while. The streets
were empty, quiet, still.

A solitary vision, of softly
fading melodies, disappearing
to a sequestered soul. Walking,
having done so for many lonely
miles, in awe I now sit here
alone. Where have all the people
gone? Where did they go? Roses
without trimming, too many years
without shearing. No gardener,
no woman or man. Just a midday
sun and a T.V. reflecting in glass

Then, with a cool passing breeze the
door shuts. The students began filing,
for their noon class. I rise as well
for the time has come to pass.

Testament

Sons of overgrown shadows that fail to disappear until dusk comes, and the looooong night.

I once was here

With you, and my friends,
in this beautiful land. And--
with regretful sighs, I wish
to see it a time and again.
But where my path has currently
wandered, my vision now altered
with age, I cannot see as I did
before; something different for
a different day.

Farewell Ashokan

All I hear during the day,
With cars passing by,
Is the sound of dull
Tribal beats, repressing
Thought, and even our
Hearts. How I long to be
With sounds of Ashokan,
Sweetly filling my life,
With memories of those long
Gone. Have we forgotten
True beauty, a sincere hope
Of tomorrow? Reverting to
Something of lesser nature,
That all in the past is now
Gone and meaningless?
And so I sit here, the only
One within a winds breath
Of daydreaming, and say to you-
Farewell Ashokan-
Ashokan Farewell…

Is

Relativism is for the mob,
Those lying in between,
Directions not yet seen--
See what I mean?

Children of God

The Children of God.
These words are soft-
And complex. What is it
To be children, to be
Adolescent, to be young,
And gullible, to be something
Pure, and wonderful. Well,
it seems to me, that this
cannot be, these things are
Rare here in the land of 'liberty'.

Are we soft and gentle with touch?
Do we show love ever quite enough?
This tenderness of a mother's heart,
Seems quite unlike building walls,
After a winter's Frost. But then
again that something else it
Could mean, that it is something
Hidden, something yet to be seen.

And thinking on movements,
Playing on people's dreams,
Disorientates as if in a forest,
With no starlight for us to gleam,
Are children not in need of guidance?
Of some truth needed to be compelled?
To make the journey worth while,
Over life's rivers and dells.

With these faults, that too often
Cloud the mind of hope, in man,
And in reason. Almost as if
Subject to time out of season.
That all these fears can be
Washed away, gone. That in realizing
This true nature, this divine pun,
It is true we are like children,
As our dust unnoticed swirls,
Past the midday Sun.

Peccavimus

Childhood has past,
Too fast and unappreciated,
And now the vast highways
Of life lie before us,
Through shadows and mist we
Travel forth into unknown land,
With no stars to guide,
Nor any known tree, Nothing
Here which we have seen.

Too have grown old at such-
a young age,from need, necessity,
How the sins of the fathers,
Are the burdens of the sons,
Who shall pay this growing fee?
Why this penance you see is for you
And me. Oh, how to achieve faith
Before our world slips into glass,
To achieve hope, like a child,
At Christmas Mass.

It seems too often humanity
accepts its doom, to a slavery
Of fear, the Young and innocent
are the ones who suffer most.
Who shall pay, to absolve this
Heavenly wrath, peering through
A cracked looking glass. And all fades
To dusk,unavoidable, as anything-
Lost. For as any beauty it was
Transient, and quickly disappears,
Like this evening only memories
Accompanied by silently falling tears.

To smite down these gods,
Of vain agony, and our strength
Though small and unseen, is strong
Enough to lift mountains or in the
Least bring justice to an impoverished
People, We must seek, my friends in love,
Unyielding to any force of
Greed, and corruption, and hate,
To become that, which makes men great!

Now let us seize that heart of Olympic
Flame. A heroic people of history and name,
Returning us back from whence we came,
For dust to dust, A child and man,
Is but a minute from the same

Something personal

My Love,
What was it you once told me?
Something, as I try to think,
Hard... Never to see in deep
Grey eyes again. Across whirling
Desert sands, an induced shaman
Vision, deeper and even falling
into some distant land within,
And without you. Would you follow
Me, hear me, feel me? No I would think
Not, in a soft satin sheet. Too many days
and no thought of evening walks, climbing
in trees. My love, my love, oh how mine
Own heart has forsaken me. But now stop,
And slowly stepping towards the smoking door,
Lights gleaming from underneath,
My ancient grandfather, darkened by sun,
Feathered and with staff. Echoes of
A woman's cruel laugh, and the soul,
Gently rolls, to sunrise,
Till the end takes its toll.

Impressions

I went to the woods,
To seek an impression,
Of untouched snow,
And lightly glazed trees,
And in doing so,it appears-
That I have made an impression,
upon it...

The Morning After

The morning after a light snow,
Watching the tufts drifting off the trees,
Like downy cherry blossoms, delicately falling,
And with each cool passing breath,
the scene renews itself,
Silently fades into memory by noon,
Oh! On such a morning as this.

Something likes to watch

These moments that arise,
With little question,
Come all to long between,
The slowly falling flecks of dust,
Reflect in the morning sunlight,
With a child's laughter,
Filling the air in the back ground,
One, two, five, seven, nine,
These days go by all to fast,
To busy to sit down in the warm green grass,
There is something about life,
That likes to sit back and watch,
The glowing fire flies,
And beyond, a slowly setting dusk.

Vademecum

This is the second draft of a new poem Iam working on let me know what you think and if you have any suggestions

Sitting here you and I, still young,
Unfettered by worldly pursuits,
Gazing upon the oblique sight of men-
Lying before us, its very nature requires
Phrases of silent apocalypse, and un-
Ending winter touching the beauty
Of frozen blue lips,

And you with your downy eyes, and
Lofty hair sit still, motionless, statuesque,
The whole time your face covering you heart
Like a betrayed lover’s mask, all but one
Single ball rolling down your face,

So here, on this night, I in some way
Have departed all of you, For this
Figment of manly sight, smile, laugh,
And frown, has cause to leave, to find
A place, and lay down. Away from the
Starless skies, noisy cars and rambling voices
But all for naught, if not with you,
My dear friend,

Having dined in halls with kings, sang with
Merry bard, and danced with sheep,
Shall we now depart to our own roads?
Or stay to terry for a moment, for the days
Have grown short, and I fear our paths
Will not converge again,

But in these last moments let us pause,
And ponder on this crystal scene,
Fragile, like brittle white porcelain,
I fear to speak that I might break it,
This scene, this scene, oh that something
Sits in between, this perturbing sight,
This most awesome dream, How may I
Leave friends and acquaintances locked
In cages of instantly gratifying paradise?

Oh our kings and queens how you have failed,
To good, to guide, to reason! Oh treason to
Your people! You who rule to serve have lost
Your sight, unfit for crown or royal purple gown,
We must ask you to step down, flocks wandering
With Sheppard gone, the walls and meadows in
Complete disrepair. A deepening sight of softly
Falling despair. In so deep a dream I can see it on
Your face, rolling down rolling down, Then-
Dropping to somewhere lost in the blowing sand.

one of my favorites

This is one of my favorite poems and writers, Alfred Lord Tennyson "Ulysses"