Into the Silence

Into the silence goes earth
the face of the mother

 who created a home for time.

We appear, disappear,
 a tear fallen from her eye.


...

Trading Shadows With The Wind

sitting bodies shaded beneath the oak

wind is blowing leaves are falling

changing the shape of oak's shadow

upon the earth

rising arms lifted we catch the leaves

knowing for each leaf that falls

a shadow disappears

from the earth

spinning arms twirling we toss the leaves to the wind

knowing it is not the wind

that caused the leaves

to fall to earth

standing arms emptied beneath the oak

sun is setting day is ending

changing the length of oak's shadow

upon the earth

stepping arms lowered into the sun

knowing if we stand rooted

by the end of day

our own shadow will disappear

from the earth

running arms lifted we join the wind

knowing it is not the sun

that leaves behind

a trail of shadows

across the earth

Triple Eyed Face

Give it a face. Whose face? Who amongst us when they first awakened were, of all things, so enraptured by their own earthly form they exalted their existence with incantations of superiority thereby evoking overtly inferior behavior towards everything not bearing their visage, that awful face they struck upon the dawn? 

Give it a body. Whose body? Whose rapacious havoc is awarded reason by those who seclude themselves within the oblivion of their own sanctified logic? Does anyone really think the intellect can endure those who ravage this body, this earth, this nature? 

Give it hands, if you dare.

Then, when this is done, give it a name.

was once a love poem here

After We're Gone

Sometime, when the snow has melted

and the bare roots of the tree

show dark against the dry dead grass...

sometime, when the first flower 

crops on a green stem...

that time will open an iron gateway

in the darkened stone wall

black with mold and dead ivy.

Sometime, when the yellow chrysanthemum 

grows again in the sunlight beside the walkway

and the cat struts along the ridgepole of the roof,

that time will tell a riddle about a wall

of one thousand stories

held together with mud and gravel

and the roots of ivy, ferns and moss.

A wall that fences off nothing, stands there

in the middle of a field without reason, an insane wall 

balancing a roof above a gate on two tall pillars

cut each from a single stone, a hollow roof

where swallows nest in April.