Have you seen the wind
as it kisses the ocean,
setting the salt free?
There at the edge of the world,
seagulls compose serenades.
Have you seen the dawn
as it sneaks up on the night,
its arms soft and warm?
There at the start of the day,
the grass tears are moist.
Have you heard the sound
of the trees in the sunshine,
stretching to the sky?
There in the warmest embrace,
the world is made whole again.
11 Jun 2025
Leave a CommentYour first breath at dawn
is not the same as the next;
light and air seep in.
How does the eye gain focus?
All illusion is chaos.
The first thing you see
when you choose to close your eyes
is an exhaled breath.
How do you know it is there?
Each summer follows a spring.
A first impression
lasts longer than the last one;
time is relative.
How do you keep it captive?
Once snow melts, it is water.
10 Jun 2025
Leave a CommentWho can say what words the wind has spoken,
when cast out in the night, it has its say?
Its speech slips out in whispers, clipped and broken.
Who can say
what language that it speaks, to curse, or pray;
and what translation key exists, what token,
to know its words, first heard at break of day?
So many lonely years it speaks, heartbroken,
unanswered in misunderstood wordplay.
What conversation passes with the woken?
Who can say?
12 MAY 2017
Leave a CommentWake early, quietly, deliberate;
look closely, carefully, attentively.
Pay greater attention, specifically,
to whispers: lingering, ephemeral.
26 APR 2017
Leave a CommentLittle bird:
did you think that no one heard
your bright melody at dawn,
long gone before day’s first word?
Seems absurd
that your little tune conferred
on my thoughts such peaceful ease
across the breeze, little bird.
17 APR 2017
Leave a CommentThis is the morning of the first day;
nothing much remains of yesterday
except some dust in the clay on the wheel,
a flew flecks of shadow in the gray.
This is the morning of moving on;
what happens now is already gone,
chaff on today’s mown lawn blown by a breeze
that has no memory of the dawn.
This is the morning of here and now;
in past soil turned under by the plow
its seeds take hold, somehow, and make their way.
No pause for reminisce is allowed.
This is the morning of the new day;
what can remain of yesterday,
except the faint scent of decay that hangs
above fragrant, new blooms as they sway?
This is the morning of what will be;
let all yesterday’s visions go free.
What good their subtlety to you today?
Past boldness provides no guarantee.
27 MAR 2017
Leave a CommentSoon the sound that breaks the day
comes to chase our sleep away;
and the darkest dreams night grew
blink from black into lighter blue.
The world, barely recognized
through half-open, hazy eyes,
wakes slow with us, its warm glow
buried below the pillows.
Arise again and don your shield,
the ancient weapons you wield
against the dumb drones that come
reeking of rum and humdrum.
Be conscious now! You must choose.
Do not linger, or you lose
this moment’s span; if you can
still stand, battle is at hand.
Until the sound that stills the day
comes quietly to end the fray,
fight on fearless, king or pawn,
at every dawn, until you’re gone.
23 FEB 2017
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