Willing

I would give so much
Over and over each day,
If it would matter

Chased by Ghosts

I hear
Them from behind.
Distorted echoes fade.
And know that like the times before,
It is no use at all to strain my ear.

I still, though, think that this time I will hear.
So I try to distinguish more.
But although I have prayed,
What do I find?
I fear.

Hope

It lays
Upon a ledge
Deep in a closet down the hall.

I (almost) wish that it will fall.
But on the edge
It stays

Yet still,
When friends arrive.
I drag it out to its display.

So when they leave, they'll turn and say
"He might survive"
I will.

A Cool, Rainy, Fall Morning

As it fell
Upon my house
Against my window
And, frankly, on my soul.

I should tell:
The dirt remained
The pane? More opaque.
And the pain? All too whole.

It can pelt
But also heal
Or lift awesome ships.
But not today. Instead:

What I felt
A subtle pull
Growing each moment
To drag me back to bed.

Infinite Possibility

A man has value in his self,

That comes from God above.

But adds to that (and to his shelf),

If great books will he love.

For what he knows and what he dreams

Will come from his own age.

Yet can be stretched beyond his means,

By words typed on a page.

The Nile, Thames, or lovely Seine:

He may not get to go.

But still feels the love and pain

From Shakespeare, Keats, Hugo.

We have but one short chance to live

While bound by time and space.

So take the gift the masters give

To travel any place.

The Messenger

He comes to the bridge, and the current, he sees,

Is Swollen, uneven, and deep.

He squints at the sun, then down through the trees

In thought (or is it in sleep).


But now there's no time, for he or his ride,

To rest, or even to think.

The covered span still awaits; his horse trots inside.

At the Inn, they'll both have a drink.


Thanks to small blessings, despite heat and haze,

The roof protects from the sun.

The walls hide distractions and focus their eyes

Away from the water's swift run.


Of these too-few seconds, he takes one or two

In the echoing dark of the bridge.

To ponder his his night; what he must now do:

He shivers, then rides to the ridge.

Blame The Weather

Morning came; the sun? Not in sight
Early on, I felt something not right
Lying there, asking "Why?"
As I looked at the sky
No sign of warm morning light.
Cool, damp zephyrs licked all round my head
Having, with them, subliminal dread
Over us, a grey sky
Looked like it may cry
Yet perennially just sulked, instead