A gentle cyclone of pigeons

Spurning all weight of gravity,
a gentle cyclone of pigeons
revolves in hushed frenzy
up towards the ghost-grey sky
then back down, over and under,
round about, in hypnotic splendor, 
a flight of flights, a dizzy clockwork
orbiting with tattered wings,
with axis tilting, the gears
meshing in the soft machinery,
free to soar, but going nowhere,
making a spectacle of small circles
then retreating back to familiar roosts
underneath the dark and filthy overpass.

Laudable the hours

Laudable the hours wasted here

and valuable every squandered year

underneath the spell of solitude

renewed by draughts of quietude.

Evening is heaven to famished eyes

nourished by feasts of starry skies

as fragrant moonflowers slowly bloom

and nightingales serenade the gloom.

Down stony paths go weary feet

rewards of sleeplessness to meet:

each winking star and trembling leaf

will assuage the heart in every grief.

The Summer Day

Down the way she ran to play

with happy friends who loved to stay

abroad in summer sun all day

in the zenith of their youth.

While golden light was shining bright

and all the blessëd world seemed right,

the children played with all their might

in the zenith of their youth.

But when the day grew old and grey

she hurried home along the way

wishing they all could stay and play

in the zenith of their youth.

Seaside Study

Mingled with these waves are voices of the ages:
laughter, weeping, the discourse of sages,
the turning, turning, turning of pages
filled with foam-words fleeing away.

White heralds above proclaim the news
with lovely but coarse and wistful mews
from their lofty and wind-tossed views
over shimmering salt seaspray.

The pink sun is leaving, the wind is sighing;
a single great blue heron is flying
close to the water while the day is dying
and while golden shores are turning to grey.

Never such somber joy

Never such somber joy, such pitiful
happy brilliant aches. Never such
bright impressive sorrow, such raging
exuberant blessëd peace. Never such
beautiful jarring light, such wistful
fragrant deafening song. Never such
consuming brittle solace, such abiding
quiet forgotten innocence. Never such
simple impoverished wisdom, such blithe
solitude, such sweet and somber somber joy.

Mr. Edgar McMillan lectures his nephew while walking through a festive crowd.

[A follow-up to "Disturbed by Spring."]

“Nephew,” said Edgar, “look around this place,

such happy expressions are on each face.

But behind each smile is a grinning skull

and upon this sober thought I mull

when beaming faces shine at me

so bright that I can scarcely see.

The expressive skin but covers bones

as cold and rigid as senseless stones.

All I see here are skeletal frights,

and I cannot abide such loathsome sights!

Such masks, such lies, such vain display!

Let us take our leave, we shall not stay!"

"But Uncle," said John, "you are too severe.

Let us partake of the revelry here!

For life is short, you must surmise,

and to spend it thus methinks unwise:

To see the bad in every good

to spoil the world, as if you could

steal the sheen from the golden sun

and shame these good folk in their fun.

The heart inside your very chest

still beats, I bet, and will attest

against your will, to the good desire

for human love, and for the blazing fire

of the Creator's Love, which you reject,

but rejects you not as you expect.

So banish every morbid thought

and embrace the goodness you have fought!"

And said the angered McMillan then:

"I cannot abide this foolish din!

Such empty speech of life and love,

of some benign divinity up above.

Boy! No goodness is to be found

and your hopes for such will hit the ground

when they topple from such platitudes.

No! Stay such nauseous attitudes!

Come - this gathering has made you bold

and made you forget the things I told

that little boy who came to me

when both his parents perished at sea,

on some frivolous trip they took

forsaking my good advice - oh, look!

that old couple there slovenly dancing

and all the crowd behind them prancing

like wild deerlings, around the square

as if they had not a single care.
I pity their foolish deluded joy,

mark me well - but where are you, boy?"

Then he saw among the reveling crowd

John dancing there and laughing loud.

100th posted piece: William Vintnerose

Gentle William Vintnerose
can fill a journal with brilliant prose
describing how a live oak grows
from acorn to ancient tree.

He can also approach grazing does,
as quiet as a breeze he goes,
and pets them each upon the nose
as they nuzzle him tenderly.

In those fields, he feeds the crows
little morsels of bread he throws.
Each one of their names he knows
and he calls to them all with glee.

He can often be seen out in the rows
of growing corn in an outstretched pose
surrounded by his favorite crows,
a happy scarecrow effigy.

And at night whenever a full moon glows,
William can be found in serene repose
underneath the old live oak that grows
in the middle of a cornstalk sea.

Uncharted Melancholia

A country lies hidden beyond the sea
where mists shroud shores perpetually,
and trees are ever in autumn bloom,
casting deep shadows of golden gloom.
The silver rivulets warble and weave
through woodland halls that serenely grieve
the advent of a somber and lonely bliss
that replaced the vibrant life they miss.
The traveller gets lost there without a map
and reclines in exhaustion for a needed nap.
While sleeping the years slip swiftly away
and he awakens as someone ancient and grey.
Golden leaves tremble above his eyes
and no one hears his contented sighs.