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Free Falling
I am free falling,
Silently sailing,
Floating weightlessly,
And softly calling,
Forever passing
Through eternity,
Forming a vision
Of my thoughts within,
Falling away
To atomic fission,
Swirling around in
Molecular stew.
I have formed no plan,
My efforts failing.
I have no calling.
Back where I began,
Silently sailing,
I am free falling.
Flying High Once More
Here I go, flying high,
Once more, walking in the sky.
The wind has blown my way.
And though it might not stay,
I feel no care,
Up here, floating on air.
I have no worry at all,
Of luck changing, of taking a fall.
All danger I spurn!
Anyway, flying and falling are almost the same.
An unruly game!
Why draw a line?
Falling is just fine, divine!
Hitting the ground is my only concern.
I’ll Be Hiding Behind A Cloud
Nina und Manuel came knocking at the door,
"Can you play with us, Daniel?"
"Not anymore.
Not today.
I have to go away.
You already know.
I told you. I have to go."
"But we want to play monsters in the rain.
Can’t it be like before?
Our parents went to Spain.
And they came back again.
That’s how we got our names."
"Sorry, there’s no time for games."
"But we don’t want it to end."
"It never ends. It all depends on your mind.
Memories you can always find.
I’ll always be your friend.
I’ll always play monsters with you.
Whenever you are feeling blue,
Listen in the wind for my howling.
Listen for me growling.
I’ll be hiding behind a cloud,
Calling your names out loud."
I Am The Silent One
I am the silent one.
I am the one behind the smile.
I am the voice when there is none,
The sigh behind the joke,
The unspoken love,
The wise pause between sentences.
I am sitting silently in the shadows,
Searching for a purpose.
I am a book amidst the stacks,
Amassing experience in volumes.
I am listening and observing.
I am here in the sadness.
Search for me deep within my eyes.
Into The Arms Of Morpheus
I want to sleep in a deep and dreamless repose.
I want to blossom like an evening primrose -
Close my eyes to day, and enter night,
Recline irrevocably into the yawning might
Of eternity’s tranquil splendor,
Completely surrender,
Of oblivion’s somnolent wine partake,
Safe in Morpheus’ keep.
Oh, how I wish I could sleep -
Doze for a moment, and never wake!
On My Bed Sleeping
Who would waste tears weeping,
Lying on a bed as mine,
Untroubled head on a pillow fine,
And a blanket to shut out the pain?
Whether morning shall dawn again,
I know not.
But I care not.
It cannot trouble me.
Nothing can trouble me,
Here on my bed sleeping.
Life At Twilight
Life is clearer in twilight than in the bright of day.
A picture is simpler in black and white, and varying shades of gray.
Children have rich imagination and fairy tales to tide them by -
But at twilight, dawn is too distant to recall which was left or right.
We pray in make-believe, biding our time until we die.
Thoughts of another morning have passed.
But fear of closed eyes won’t last.
Gone are the colorful questions of why!
Twilight!
Subtle shifting darkness to conceal the aims of night!
Swiftly Flowing
My life is just a dream
In universal flow,
And matter but a stream
That only time can slow.
The hours are swiftly flowing.
The time of youth has passed.
I don’t know where I am going,
But I’m going there fast.
Off To Find Paradise
The air, discontent to remain still,
shifts around to find a better space.
The larches groan at the disturbance,
sway begrudgingly out of place.
The fire hisses, angry to be so hot,
spits and sizzles with disgust.
The wet logs whine at becoming a bit of steam and heat,
light for a while, then ashes and dust.
Sparks drift up to the night, with ambitions of becoming stars,
soon dying from doubt.
The crescent moon leans to one side,
trying to prevent more shine from pouring out.
I am here, watching,
wondering what at last is to become of me.
A squirrel on a near branch seems to disagree
with my choice of bed, offers some scathing advice.
And high above,
A goose honks out a rusty declaration that he is off to find paradise.
Rock
Patiently it abides,
Learned observer of eons,
Silently derides
The temporal peons
For their foolish ways -
Their attempts to change,
In the course of several days,
Completely rearrange,
The nature of the universe.
The rock understands
How absurdly perverse,
How trivial is the work of mortal hands.
The rock is undisturbed,
Stands unperturbed
At the buffeting of the human sea,
Observing another lesson in longevity,
Waiting to see what humankind shall be
After a few thousand years’ brevity.
In The Library
No light burns in the library tonight.
Dusty history books set on the shelves.
The weary librarian cannot quite
Bring himself to order them, so he delves
Into stacks of fiction and fairy tales.
He reads by a slight glimmer of insight
Into what might bring order to the bales
Of anecdotes stacked to the ceiling height.
There are too many stories out of place.
Someday he intends to set them all right.
There must be some way to find them all space.
Someday he will do it, but not tonight.
Silver Lining
Being -
I can say
Little good
About it,
Except
For a little girl,
Who sat on my knee,
And asked me to read her a story.
Do you feel like I do?
Do you feel like I do?
Do you feel life when you sigh?
Do you feel like green is blue?
Do you feel like you could cry?
Do you feel that too?
Do you feel a bit high?
Do you feel your lies come true?
Do you feel you should fly?
Do you feel you don’t know you?
Do you feel like you will never die?
Do you feel like I do?
Pumpkin Patch
A pumpkin patch is a magical plot,
A lush supernatural garden spot,
Where goblins and ghouls meet to masquerade
As plain orange pumpkins out on parade.
A pumpkin patch is a rendezvous place,
Where summer disappears without a trace,
And autumn turns down a dark narrow lane,
To hide in vines on a parallel plane
With all of the past seasons come and gone
To their final spring on a wizen lawn.
A pumpkin patch is paradise on earth,
A haven for friendless spirits to roam,
To which all drifters are destined from birth,
A home for ghosts who never found a home.
Come, lonely wanderers, rest from your day.
Rolling, rustling, leaves will show you the way
To gather together with a drear host,
And join in chorus with the silent throng.
When some night, I become a lonely ghost,
I will haunt a pumpkin patch the night long.
To An Unknown Woman
To an unknown woman
Who lived ages ago:
I wish that you could know
The thoughts that I summon.
When your man did not return,
When the roof thatch got too old,
When seasons began to turn,
When you became deathly cold,
Tell me, dear misery’s wife,
Did you hope to see Spring?
How did you finish life?
Did you dream of anything?
I would have helped you stand.
I would have stilled your heart.
Had the years played no part,
I would have held your hand.
Iron Cross
With last breath of blood-corrupted lungs resisting collapse,
And Mauser aborted in mud, rusted and no longer needed,
Not settling willingly to that dark, deep, and thoughtless rest,
Persevering in valor for a lost cause, never surrendering,
Never compromising conviction for convention of any measure,
Thoughts put aside of your mother weeping bitterly years hence,
You, here is the recognition for your courage extraordinary.
Such tenacity deserves a remark, an Iron Cross at least.
Pipes Calling
Bagpipes are blowing on a clear afternoon,
On a north wind bringing
Sad notes flowing in timeless tune -
Against the white cliffs singing.
Salt rain falling from a cloudless sky,
As an ocean crashes upon the shore,
Induces a heavy heart to fly,
To depart land, and return nevermore.
Our Little Life
Out beyond the pasture’s edge,
On the path to the springhead,
Near a lilac hedge,
In a sagging woodshed,
On a golden carpet of straw,
Away from the reach of any law,
Behind a bale of hay, I hide,
A gentle rabbit at my side.
He and I found life there best,
My little friend and I,
While the world passed by
Without our interest.
In The Jubilation Of My Zenith
The ship sailed westward,
High and blown
On billowing clouds, across the day,
A fiery hull taking the azure ocean away,
Bringing in its wake a low light.
Creeping up from the east came a schooner,
Riding on lengthening shadows,
Rising upon a tide of dusk.
And from remote places,
The beacons of distant ships,
Scattered out across the endless seas, glistened.
And I, in the jubilation of my zenith,
Was but a drop of water,
But a grain of sand.
A Snowflake Has Melted In My Eye
Sweet to remember, sad with the years,
Are December evening tidings and cheers
Ringing clearly, bringing out yestermorn,
In hazy snow-falling remembrance born -
A day far too near to be easily dispelled
By a heavy heart so sorrowfully swelled
Like seasons come and gone away again -
Snows fallen and melted to again begin.
Where do you wind, oh, north wind?
Wherein has a soul then sinned
A measure sufficient for a storm like this -
This soft-on-the-forehead-long-evaporated kiss,
Lingering so, as a low-hanging sunset,
Refusing to abide, in dire regret,
To the declaration of the stars
That a shining sun must give way to Mars?
Oh, golden, golden, morning passed away,
Wrapped up and displaced by a dimming day,
A glimmering crimson coal of light,
A summer stream springing into night,
A dream to be taken literally,
Relished and savored liberally,
In a sinking memory painfully setting,
In a weary mind is still begetting.
Oh, how we had our day!
The colors we had before the gray!
Fawns pranced in the warming sun!
Always, life had just begun,
And the succulent softness of youth
Yet to be hardened by truth!
Oh, for a moment more on that grass!
Oh, that time should never pass!
Life is a mysterious device
That turns a blossom into ice,
A sweet flower rising in spring birth
Then falling fatefully back to earth,
The dew having lost its stake,
Leaving misty minds to quake.
Do not believe that I simply cry.
A snowflake has melted in my eye.
Here, Before The Cold Hearth, Weary
Here, before the cold hearth, weary,
I’ve nothing simple words might say
To meet the falling night’s inquiry
Of moonlight dimming in the bay.
Beyond the dripping window pane,
Ancient pipers are softly playing
Rhythmic notes above the rain,
To the gods of tempest praying,
For the souls of bygone yearning,
For the want of lasting memory,
For the loss of life love burning,
Singing of what used to be.
Once they piped a tune so merry,
Echoed upon mountain heights,
Called across the rolling prairie,
Played upon such wondrous sights.
Once they danced upon the morning,
Saw life wake so long ago,
Songs of temporal creatures scorning,
In the time-long score they blow.
Now the tune so melancholy
Carries out across the trees,
Blows the notes of mortal folly,
Moaning low the mournful breeze.
Bringing on the dark so dreary,
Shadows from the threshold creep.
Here, before the cold hearth, weary,
Slowly drifting off to sleep,
In my final thoughts of waking,
I hear an ageless symphony,
Instruments of heaven’s making,
Play a midnight song for me.
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