Tuesday, October 30, 2012

Upon Argent Eyrie

High silver-draped ancient crags
slip down to an ink-nectar sea
that reaches up with foam-fingers
toward the peaks at even-tide.

The sullen hoar-frost hermit moon
shakes his round curmudgeon head
and turns away with a silent scowl
while the frigid but laughing stars
dare to cajole the falcon-kindred
nesting secure upon Argent Eyrie.

Through sleepy-slits, the raptor young
peer out from within a dream-stupor
upon a multitude of glittering eyes
leering down from the night-darkness,
rodent-spectres come to haunt them
in their slumbering, or so it seems
to the little ones who, with bellies full,
shudder under the privileged warmth
of maternal-wings, and hidden there
close tight their bright and tender eyes.

Wednesday, October 24, 2012


The murmur of conversations
between white walls, the
half-second silent pauses,
the bland delicacies, the opening
and shutting of eating mouths,
the subconsciously audible
breathing and much shuffling of
feet, the eyes puffy under harsh
light, the burst of outrageous
laughter over some half-hearted
humor, the still and vapid air,
the sighs.

Thursday, October 18, 2012

Late Morning

A withered woman sweeping the floor.
      An open window full of autumn light.
The distant ringing of many bells.
      Dry leaves rattling on crooked limbs.
Eggshells in mud outside the door.
      Crows squabbling over a slice of bread.
A cool wind bending tall grasses.
      A glimpse of grey in the western sky.

Friday, October 12, 2012

Foreign Land

[From The Songbook of Sgt. Robert Jameson, RAF c. 1920]

Waves upon the sand.
Don't be such a foreign land.
You speak but I don't understand.
Waves upon the sand.

I look into your eyes.
I see diamonds fall from summer skies.
Above the waves a seagull flies.
I look into your eyes.

And it's so beautiful to me.
It's all so beautiful to me.

Something has begun.
Underneath a golden sun.
Rivers to the ocean run.
Something has begun.

And it's so beautiful to me.
It's all so beautiful to me.

You take me by the hand
and lead me to a foreign land.
You speak and now I understand.
You take me by the hand.

And it's so beautiful to me.
It's all so beautiful to me.

Saturday, October 6, 2012

O what dark wind

O what dark wind worries these funeral leaves
and sets them rattling under a scowling moon?
The most withered and aged tremble and fall
when touched by the cold wraiths of autumn
who drift unseen through the shuddering weeds
to bring fragrant sighs from the dying world
and to wail with banshee voices in the night.