Saturday, December 5, 2015

Lux Obscura

[From: "The Last Journal of Gwyllyn"]

A light unseen, an infinite weight,
pressing down, with power to raise
these mud-eyes from the tangled haze
towards a glorious and hidden gate.

But where can I turn
under light of day
that will not be now
a turning away?

For the vast world now appears spread out
like thin marmalade on mildewed toast,
like foul waves breaking on a broken coast,
forever roaring and tumbling about.

While in great silence the light blooms above
bringing deep darkness to drown my sight,
a resplendent night-cloud at noontide height,
concealing an unspeakable and boundless love.

And where can I turn
under light of day
that will not be now
a turning away?

Monday, May 25, 2015

Awaiting Tomorrow

[From: “The Last Journal of Gwyllyn"] 

If in your dreams you see me wandering
through ripe wheatfields, pensive, pondering,
alone and adrift upon an ocean of grain
golden and billowing under a threat of rain,
then sing out to me from your upstairs window,
intone a bright song while the sea-zephyrs blow,
that my thoughts in the turbulent twilight air
will be mingled with a music resplendent and fair
and so ascend arrayed with both gladness and sorrow
through clouds to the starlight awaiting tomorrow.

Wednesday, May 13, 2015

A beautiful sadness

[From: "The Last Journal of Gwyllyn"]

A beautiful sadness, a sorrowful joy,
there are no suitable words to employ
for rightly describing this looming desire,
this living catastrophe of bright gentle fire
which blazes in darkness and thick quietude
and thunders in silence and content solitude,
with a wordless wisdom from beginning to end
unseen yet beautiful, all sorrows to mend.

Monday, May 4, 2015

How soundlessly the sunlight falls

[From: "The Life of Saint Robert Southwell, Priest and Martyr"]

How soundlessly the sunlight falls
upon the wide world after rain,
unmeasured night and fevered pain,
dispelling gloom in woodland halls.
Dewdrops cling to eyelash wings,
and eyes once more see many things.

But the objects underneath the sky,
so dear before, appear quite strange,
all stricken with some peculiar change -
as silent as death they pass me by.
The things of earth, I must confess,
now seem empty and meaningless.

But a living call is on the wind,
a breath requesting willing price,
for many souls, a sacrifice,
as new leaves shake and branches bend.
A courage swells for what may come,
be it blade or noose of martyrdom.

Thursday, April 2, 2015

The wind is fierce

[From: “The Last Journal of Gwyllyn”]

The wind is fierce in my thoughts today
sifting the thistles and tangled weeds,
scattering dry leaves and maple seeds,
and sweeping withered flowers away.

The air is fragrant with unseen rose,
with marigold, alyssum, and juniper,
honeysuckle, phlox, and lavender,
mingling as the morning glows.

Light is bright on the tender frond
and dew is lingering in the sun;
some new splendor has begun
with fierce wind blowing from beyond.

Thursday, March 19, 2015

A fragrant minstrelsy

The starlight pierced the soundless sky
before the sun laid down its head,
beyond the hillocks burning red
with bands of small birds passing by.

A fragrant minstrelsy was hung
on winds blown from a distant land
where turquoise waves sift diamond sand,
where all is fair and ever-young.

Where apple-blossoms in the sun
are stirred by every gentle breeze,
by music in the blooming trees,
by ancient arias just begun.

And with the sun now gone to sleep
and dreaming of another day,
the world in shadow fades away
as stars their quiet vigils keep.

Sunday, March 15, 2015

The little wind-up girl

The little wind-up girl with a broken spring
sits looking down upon everything
from her shantytown-shelf of shadow and dust,
dreaming her wistful dreams of rust.

She smiles quite sweetly as she dreams,
but she always smiles, or so it seems.
She rattles inside when she is shaken,
but none shake now; she is quite forsaken.

The decay of time her face defiles,
and still she smiles and smiles and smiles.

Tuesday, February 24, 2015

There shines a fair road

[From: "The Last Journal of Gwyllyn"]

Subtle yet certain, there shines a fair road,
a gossamer thread, a thin golden hair,
weaving its way up through branches and stars
and bidding me to follow - and yet do I dare?

For once on that way, the things of the earth
would be drained of their vibrant color and taste;
and what would life be in such a strange world,
in such an insipid and grey-muted waste?

But behold! what a blessëd and glittering light
shakes down the filament from its farthest end,
from beyond the splendors of this fading realm,
from the fount on which all splendors depend!

And taking a step onto this fairest of roads,
I find that the footing is solid and secure;
and so, with the beckoning light in my eyes,
I run to it headlong, the way being sure!

Friday, February 20, 2015

Drawing Near

[From: "The Last Journal of Gwyllyn"]

Between the grinding gears of life,
in the very midst of strife,
there comes a sense of quiet here,
drawing drawing drawing near.

The blinding brightness of the day
begins to dim and fade away;
a darkness comes, bereft of fear,
drawing drawing drawing near.

A shadow-silhouette is seen,
eclipsing every earthly sheen;
enduring love and peace appear,
drawing drawing drawing near.

Monday, February 16, 2015


[From: "The Last Journal of Gwyllyn"]

Never was Anna-Maria more beautiful
than when she gazed on the twilight sea,
in the spring of her life; when a lonely gull
cried aloft in the tumbling wind; when she,
heedless of gusts in her unfettered hair,
let saltwater fall from her blue eyes there.

The waves, each draped with a white wedding veil,
bowed low as they came in procession ashore,
and hushed their fair voices near a maiden so pale,
so beautiful and wistful, so pitiful and poor.
The golden sands shifted beneath her bare feet,
and stars began blooming, the nightfall to greet.

Thursday, February 12, 2015


[From: "The Lost Writings of C. James Gwyllyn"]

Awakening, as if from death,
drawing in a full soft breath;
arising from the coffin-bed,
knowing I am not yet dead.
Light is on the shaking leaf
and in my eyes. The tender grief
grows mellow in the morning hour,
becomes a kind of joy, a flower
blooming in the hopeful spring,
glad of life, of everything.
Drops of rain fall in the sun,
glittering, golden, every one.

Sunday, February 8, 2015

A Lovely Muse

[From: "The Last Journal of Gwyllyn"]

Melancholy is a lovely muse,
and a welcome houseguest after all;
I will hearken to her tender call,
her visits I will not refuse.

A twilight wind through many leaves
precedes her knocking at the door,
like gentle waves upon the shore
while the ocean under moonlight heaves.

A maiden young, but growing old,
with a wistful smile, but shining bright;
her grey eyes brim with glad starlight
glimmering through the quiet cold.

She stirs the woodland of my mind
with many fair and whispered words;
I hear the songs of many birds,
for a time I leave the world behind.

And from these visits she makes to me,
I have learned that it is not so bad,
to be profoundly happy, yet a little sad,
and to live life thus, contentedly.

She has made me see the world anew,
with potent splendors under light of day,
and at the same time watch them fade away,
unhindered by all we could say or do.

She has taught me to listen to the song
that these things sing before they go,
something they would have us know,
that Here you will not tarry long...

...your yearnings pull you far away
from this dark world; what here you love
will never last; O look above
where night will soon be endless Day!

Wednesday, February 4, 2015


[From: "The Lost Writings of C. James Gwyllyn"]

I would bring her fair dreams in waking life,
and smooth her white and furled brow
in every discouragement and strife,
her deepest nights with stars endow.

But her world pirouettes in distant space,
en pointe above these stranger-eyes,
resplendent, arrayed with light and grace,
a noon-sun in these fading skies.

And I, a fratello she never has met,
a comrade fated to be unknown,
behold in wonder the red sunset,
having truly loved, and loved alone.

Friday, January 30, 2015


[From: "The Last Journal of Gwyllyn"]

I behold the world from far away,
as through a window; the light of day,
subdued behind a mountain chain,
can scarcely pierce the windowpane.

The milky heavens, drained of gold,
at times send raindrops, fierce and cold;
the wind speaks to the sleeping trees
of distant winter tragedies.

A river of starlings hurries past
on some grand quest; they briefly cast
their fluttering shadows on the ground,
then pass away without a sound.

Night is creeping across the grass,
the world slips further from the glass;
a candle is lit within the room
against the swiftly gathering gloom.

Monday, January 26, 2015

Awaiting Sleep

The lights and colors flutter past
her closed eyelids; the phantoms last
some moments in the darkness after
a stillness falls; then voices, laughter
within the house, yet far away,
ripple upon the edge of grey;
the oaks outside the window grow
a little taller; the moon is low
and shining fair; the sky is deep
above the child awaiting sleep.

Friday, January 23, 2015


[From: "The Last Journal of Gwyllyn"]

Floating out into the ocean sky,
the golden blue, the open eye
beholding all things on the earth,
ascribing to each but little worth.

A great and glittering teardrop there,
suspended in darkness, shining fair,
with the joys and griefs of everyone
falling and falling around the sun.

With blending hues and brittle lights,
with shifting clouds upon the heights,
the furious clamorings of the day
serenely burn, then fade away.

Monday, January 19, 2015

The day is an epoch

Over behind the behemoth high-rise,
a dumpster is heaped, attracting flies;
their jade backs glint under blazing skies
while the sun looks on with complacent eyes.

The day is an epoch; the bright humming city
is a wild and unfathomed depth of infinity,
where great planets sail on the deep churning sea
pushed onward by winds blowing mighty and free.

But the epoch is ending, the long shadows fall;
the slumber of slumbers sends out its soft call;
the sated flies cling to the crust of the wall
and observe the white moon as it shines over all.

Friday, January 2, 2015

A hidden holy light

[From: "The Last Journal of Gwyllyn"]

When the voice of the world, with its empty muttering,
grows mute; when in the sunlight I begin shuddering
from a curious fever; when all the things that I love
compel me to be quiet and stare absently above;
not at clouds, or the sun, or the wide void of blue,
but at nothing, yet somehow at everything too;
not thinking one thought, not speaking one word,
with just the silence behind all things being heard;
where peace unassailable, and joy clear and bright,
with love shine forever in a hidden holy light.

Monday, December 29, 2014

As I now breathe

[From: "The Last Journal of Gwyllyn"]

As I now breathe, I remember the world
when it shone bright, was gilded, pearled;
when silver were the swollen drops of rain
which fell like stars on the golden grain;
when trees danced glad, and the ancient moon,
when not so ancient, brought afternoon
to the shade of night; when mountains aloft
with hoar-heads shining, scraped the soft
and airy dome, which brimmed with wine,
decanted when the sky-gem rose to shine;
when gold of morning brought forth a song
from folk emerging in gladsome throng,
the citizens beholding with glittering eyes
the good world beneath the blazing skies.

Friday, December 19, 2014

The music of silence

[From: The Last Journal of Gwyllyn]

The music of silence fills the air
with a hushed and hidden minstrelsy
from far beyond the Farthest Sea,
from a continent bright and fair.

And in the darkness, light is seen
though veiled behind a shadow-cloak,
a robe of thundercloud and smoke,
obscuring its golden sheen.

But for now, the dark and silent night
embraces the soul in solitude
which awaits with patient quietude
the advent of morning light.

Sunday, December 14, 2014

A ghost is in the apple grove

A ghost is in the apple grove,
a midnight shadow on the wind,
behind the house, in a gated cove
where fruitless branches shake and bend.

And a fragrance comes up from the sea
of cinnamon, clove and rosemary.

A raven watches from the wall
in calm repose, with gleaming eye;
from yonder wood his fellows call
but to them there he will not fly.

The air is rich with thyme and myrrh
admixed with sage and juniper.

Wolves are howling at the gate,
beneath a sky without a stain;
a candle-flame is burning late
through an upper windowpane.

Spikenard, mint are on the breeze
still shaking through the apple trees.

Thursday, December 11, 2014

A dream

I dreamed of a deer, robust and tall,
with oak-branch antlers hoisted high;
his new leaves swung in gladsome winds
and glittered beneath the springtime sky.

He strode up to a rocky height
and viewed the world in morning light.

A green fire blazed upon the hills
bestirred by soft and whispered words
which told the tales of summer joys
that fill the hearts of singing-birds.

The sylvan realm had breadth and scope
which burgeoned bright with living hope.

But the beast grew solemn when the sun
reached its zenith-height at noon;
he shook his leaves, now touched with red,
and beheld an early-rising moon.

A coldness laced the golden wind;
he knew the day rushed to its end.

A pale fire smoldered in the west
as leaves and acorns from him fell.
A hoar-frost gathered on his coat
and he laid down in the twilight, frail.

He lowered his white and weary head,
with branches bare, and soon was dead.

I awoke with the sun ablaze in the sky
bursting anew with its joyful face;
glittering golden on many leaves
and filling the day with boundless grace.

Spring was bright, the sky was blue
and light was on the morning dew.

Friday, December 5, 2014

Suspend the stars

Suspend the stars, serene and bright,
around the moon with silver strings
and crown the trees like lofty kings
who rule in peace the realm of night.

Perfume the air with scent of pine
and send out moths abroad to dance
on powdered wings to find, perchance,
some blooming phlox or columbine.

Then stir the wakeful nightingale
to intone her fair and wistful song
and induce the stars to sing along
so to bid the setting moon farewell.

Thursday, December 4, 2014

A prayer

[Composed by Fr. Cedric of Ulster (d. 1780)]

O grant us grace to laud Thy Power,
Thy Love, Thy Beauty, in every flower,
not seized and clutched, but simply seen,
then to lift up eyes still clear and clean
to praise Thee rightly from this shore
and beyond the Sea forevermore!

Monday, December 1, 2014


[From: "The Last Journal of Gwyllyn"]

The light of morning grew apace
and filled the chalice of the sky
with golden elixir for the eye
to brighten and heal with quiet grace.

A foul flood from the hills was streaming
turbulent in haste over many stones
in deep vales where a dark wind moans
until it appeared under daylight gleaming.

The taints of wormwood were then made sweet
and the cataract-clouds were dissolved away,
as when night yields to the flame of day
and the winter chill to the summer heat.

And at last when the torrent found the sea
and in quietude glittered clear and bright
beneath a calm and golden light,
the eye closed in tranquility.

Friday, November 28, 2014

The heavens of Atlantis

The girl stood placid and fair
in a desolate sort of way,
like the streets of Carthage
or the ruins of Pompeii,
gazing out upon the ocean
with her saltwater eyes,
upon the heavens of Atlantis
shining under the skies.

The Machines! the Machines!
now drowned and decayed
in their many-pillared temples
thrown down and unmade!
No more incense offerings,
no more nectar libations,
no more lofty choruses
of sweet supplications!

The seabirds are restless
and wail in the wind;
the sand-grasses rattle,
they shudder and bend.
The tide is now swelling
across the black shore;
the girl turns from the waters
to gaze on them no more.

Monday, November 24, 2014

In the throes of solitude

[From: Journeys at Eventide]

In the throes of solitude,
discerning elvish runes
hidden among the leafless branches
twining beneath the moons.

Beneath fair silver Änanfël
sailing out of the west
on sundered waves with star-spray
glittering upon each crest.

And also golden Ixilthwë
arising from the east
in vestiture of blazing clouds
as solemn as a priest.

At middle-night, the twain shall meet
in an alchemy of light;
the priest will board the shining ship
as stars burn golden-bright.

The trees will sway their barren limbs
toward the meeting moons,
and sleep will come in the mingled light
under a canopy of runes.

Friday, November 21, 2014

Wandering an acre of the world

Wandering an acre of the world
where magnolias wear mighty beards
and tall firs shiver in benighted winds,
where mist-ships sail upon a sea of stars
and hurry past on their secret errands -
you and I, with half-shuttered eyes,
behold the dusty porcelain moon
sinking behind a boxwood hedge,
and move pale lips to the stanzas
of deep and solemn winter-songs.

Monday, November 17, 2014

A joy like sorrow

[From: "The Last Journal of Gwyllyn"]

The world is brown beneath the sky
and stark against such vivid blue;
a fragile breath is shaking through
the barren branches stretching high.

The hills that dwell out in the west
are burning now with orange fire,
fading flames of another pyre
built for day at night's behest.

The first stars and the rising moon
witness the dying of the day,
the conquering of the golden ray
which blazed so radiant at noon.

But a joy like sorrow finds me here
and dawns on me in dim twilight;
the darkness shines with hidden light
and speaks with silence in my ear.

For now I know I was never the one
who sought to pierce the skies above
and who quested for eternal love:
in myself I would have not begun.

But seeking, questing, comes a bliss,
serene and simple in the night,
through the tangled shadow-light,
to give my weary soul a kiss.

Wednesday, November 12, 2014

Beyond the hills

[From: "The Last Journal of Gwyllyn"]

The hedgerows are silent, the gardens are grey,
the pageant of summer has faded away,
and cool gusts in the oak leaves sigh:
Even the loveliest flowers die.

Elm branches twine like wood-hag hands,
the geese flee south in solemn bands,
and blackbirds in their conclaves cry:
Even the loveliest flowers die!

And beyond the hills, a bell is ringing;
a hidden voice is softly singing
beneath a gathering grey-beard sky:
Even the loveliest flowers die.

Tuesday, November 11, 2014

In time of famine

[From: "Songs and Verses" by C. James Gwyllyn]

You feed me in time of famine,
you shine on me at night,
you come to me as hidden bread,
you come to me as light.

My fields are dark beneath the stars
and withered is the grain
from being bludgeoned by the sun
and forgotten by the rain.

O feed me in time of famine!
O shine on me at night!
O give to me your hidden bread!
O give to me your light!

Friday, November 7, 2014


[From: "The Last Journal of Gwyllyn"]

O what will the archaeologists find
sifting the silt-dust in my mind?
A monastery buried in the hills,
a cloistered box of cogs and wheels
left overnight in the pouring rain,
little souvenirs of forgotten pain:
a rusted half-penny, a twisted nail,
a toy sailing-ship without a sail,
beetle-leather armor and spider-silk,
an acorn goblet of moonlight milk,
wooden thoughts, wrought-iron dreams;
mansions built up with ryegrass beams;
white-onyx smiles, looking-glass eyes;
a clockwork crow that croaks and flies;
a rocking-horse rabbit, a porcelain frog;
an engraving of foxes chasing a dog;
some wild boar tusks, a skeleton hand
and an hourglass emptied of all its sand.

Tuesday, November 4, 2014

Bruised by shadows

[From: "The Last Journal of Gwyllyn"]

A strange quietude now invades me,
walking beneath these sleeping skies;
a silver tangled mist pervades me,
confusing old and wearied eyes.

Shadows mingle and night conceives
dreams and whispers, skin and bones,
entwining boughs of withered leaves,
a world built of such brittle stones.

Through pine-nettles, wind is seething;
beyond the mist, the moon is bright.
I wander farther, brooding, breathing,
bruised by shadows through the night.

Sunday, October 12, 2014

Little Patroness

[from: The Recollections of Jonathan Eastwick]


On one bright mid-autumn day,
after many days of grey,
I put my books and things away
and slipped out on my own.
     My work I put aside,
     routine habit I defied,
and I slipped out on my own.

The air was filled with golden light,
elms and oaks were blazing bright,
the world was glad with all its might
as I stepped along alone.
     Yellow leaves and red
     swung above my head
as I stepped along alone.


I strolled first down Magnolia Street
with cobbled bricks beneath my feet
and then turned onto Bracken Street
towards the graveyard there.
     Past a grand estate,
     through an iron gate,
I entered the graveyard there.

If I had to be a restless revenant,
Rose Hill I would choose to haunt;
but no one would I scare or taunt,
I would simply wander there.
     Among the old trees
     and the ossuaries
I would simply wander there.

The monuments of grey sandstone
with amber light at mid-day shone;
it seemed to me I was all alone
and could take a needed rest.
     It had been my aim
     to rest my frame
and so I took my rest.

Against a headstone I reclined,
the fretful world seemed far behind,
my troubles I put out of mind
and then drifted off to sleep.
     A gentle breeze
     was in the leaves
as I drifted off to sleep.


I dreamed of a small crowd on its way
towards me in the light of day
weeping under clouds of grey
bearing a coffin of wood.
     A mournful choir
     in black attire
bearing a coffin of wood.

Into the shadows I hid from sight,
but remained to watch, if I might,
the unfolding of this funeral rite
which was curious now to me.
     The one whom they bore
     and were mourning for
was curious now to me.

The procession came closer and I saw
that the coffin they carried was very small,
for a person no more than four feet tall
and so I shuddered where I stood.
     A sorrowful sight
     was a coffin so slight
and I shuddered where I stood.


They brought their burden to the very stone
where moments before I had reclined alone
- a rudeness I committed unbeknown! -
and to a hole there delved in the earth.
     A rectangle of soil
     by no sign of toil
had been somehow delved in the earth.

At that point I became aware
of a light about me bright and fair;
I turned to see close by me there
a girl of about six or seven.
     Watching the scene
     behind an evergreen,
a girl of about six or seven.

In a sleeping-gown she stood there,
her cheeks were flushed, her feet were bare
and white as snow was her long hair
- then she turned and looked at me.
     With cheerful eyes
     under cloudy skies,
she turned and looked at me.


A light was in her smiling face,
a profound joy, a tender grace;
a flower of the human race,
yet not quite of this world.
     I could tell this child
     who sweetly smiled
was not quite of this world.

Her rapt attention again she gave
to the solemn assembly at the grave;
I stepped towards her, feeling brave,
for with her I wished to speak.
     A luminous pearl
     was this little girl,
and with her I wished to speak.

Stepping on leaves as quiet as I could,
I drew quite close to where she stood;
then she spoke, as I hoped she would,
and pointed with her little hand.
     Towards the crowd
     in grief now bowed
she pointed with her little hand.

"See my mommy," the little girl said,
"my dear daddy too, and my uncle Ed,
all very sad because I'm...dead
- sad because I died so young."
     I thought I saw
     a teardrop fall
when she said "because I died so young."

But somehow her joy, which shone so bright,
was undimmed by grief and suffered no blight;
both mingled together with greater light,
and with greater beauty and joy.
     It did her endow,
     I know not how,
with greater beauty and joy.

And the radiance did not cease to grow,
but all around her did it hallow;
even the mourners, in the glow,
became joyful to behold.
     In the blessëd light
     they all shone bright
and were joyful to behold.

In the same light too, I knew at last
that these were glimpses of the past,
long shadows that the years had cast
now part of something bright.
     Shadows stark
     no longer dark
but now part of something bright.


I looked long at that little child
so innocent and undefiled,
and, with my mind quite reeling wild,
I asked her then a question.
     I had a thought
     and so I sought
to ask her then a question.

"You weren't yet eight at the time you died,
were you baptized?" (She nodded, smiling wide.)
"So, if to good teaching I abide,
you then flew straight to Heaven.
     Indeed is it true
     at death that you
then flew straight to Heaven?"

As if amused by my theological reasoning,
she gave a small laugh, and then began singing!
And in some far distance, bells were ringing
and all the clouds drew back.
     A heaven of gold
     was there to behold
when all the clouds drew back.

The graveyard then became a garden fair,
with bright flowers blooming everywhere
which filled with fragrance the golden air
shimmering all around.
     The light from the skies
     was in my eyes
and was shimmering all around.


Then to the girl I spoke once more,
telling her how I was wretched and poor,
but I longed to reach that Blessëd Shore,
would she pray for me from there?
     In my distress,
     be my patroness
and pray for me from there?

She smiled and whispered "yes" to me,
and then she herself made a plea:
would I please remember her family
whenever I said my prayers?
     Of course, said I
     until I die,
I would remember them in my prayers.

She said their surnames were Collins and Braeme,
and that "Katie" was her own given name;
I then assured Katie it would be my aim
to daily pray for them.
     Agreed were we:
     she would pray for me
and I would daily pray for them.

Beaming, she reached up a hand to me
and, in taking it, I was made to see
something akin to eternity
shining within her eyes.
     The skies above
     and endless love
were shining within her eyes.

And then I saw her hoar-frost hair
become brown ringlets as she stood there
crowned with many flowers fair
framing her joyful face.
     Blooms all bright
     in the golden light
framed her joyful face.

The light shone brighter from the skies
and overwhelmed my bedazzled eyes;
I saw the child began to rise
and then she disappeared.
     In my sight
     was blinding light
and the child had disappeared.


I awoke still reclining against the stone
still in Rose Hill, still alone;
high in heaven, the sun still shone
and with a hand I was reaching up.
     Towards the light
     shining so bright
with a hand I was reaching up.

I roused myself and stood upright;
the world was fair in the autumn light.
I turned around, and what caught my sight
was the stone on which I had leaned.
     An epitaph was there
     which I now share
from the stone on which I had leaned.

It read: KATIE COLLINS is buried here,
Our Only Child, Our Angel Dear.
And judging from dates which were not quite clear,
she was almost seven when she died.
     A century ago,
     and now I know,
she was almost seven when she died.

The headstones around hers bore the names
of her mother Elizabeth, her father James,
and other Collinses, and many Braemes,
her dearly beloved kin.
     And pausing there,
     I said a prayer,
for her dearly beloved kin.

I lingered some time in old Rose Hill,
wandering about until the day grew chill;
I strolled home with the sun behind a far hill
painting the sky with gold.
     A gentle breeze
     was in the leaves
and the sky was painted with gold.

Saturday, October 11, 2014

fevered dreaming

metal shavings, braided wire
magma apples, ocean fire
fossil hailstones from the sky
sad clowns trying not to cry
foxes eating desert sand
a keyhole carried in the hand
the sun grown weary of the heat
bison running down the street
a sky full of silver polka-dots
bonfires of plums and apricots
the blinding beauty of the clam
an uncooked slice of Christmas ham
faces covered with many words
discovering that bees are really birds
a river clogged with wooden dolls
leaves falling over waterfalls
watching an acorn as it dies
watching an acorn as it dies...