Now this is the kind of thing I wish I had thought of first.


Thoughts once came
in the dim, azure light
of a warm autumn night
and at my bare feet
he most gently laid

roses of a crimson shade.
And half I smile,
and half I weep,
as I lay me down to sleep.
I closed my dreary eyes
and he stopped to look around,
left the room without a sound.
In the morning thought returned,
I felt no grace nor any pain,
turned to stone in the fallen rain.


The white hue of innocence,
cloaks the frailty of the earth,
a shroud that veils the victims
of the killing frosts of autumn.
It deadens the harsh sounds
as footfalls crush withered petals
and crumpled fallen leaves,
making mute the shouts of frolic
as children throw weapons,
frozen amid winter’s war,
and fashion round effigies
of grizzled old man winter.


A postcard from my dreams
postmarked just last night,
from exotic places
arrived with morning light.
Gentle tropic breezes
warmed my dreaming skin,
but when I did awake,
I was cold once again.
In my dreams I float
above the world I see,
but I’m always brought back
by the force of gravity.

A postcard from my dreams
proves that I was there,
wherever I was taken to,
though I do not really care.
For my dreams do not need,
my dreams do not require,
validation when I wake,
nor hosannas from the choir.
They belong to only me
and share I never will,
the postcards from my dreams
and the places that they fill.


The day breaks in the east
while the half moon hangs
high above in winter sky
twixt skeletal limbs of trees.
The golden glow of sun
and the silver of the moon
look down upon the barren earth
and glisten off the snow.
A slate blue sky holds them both
in sudden equilibrium,
that vanishes in an instant
as darkness gives way to light.
The new day breaks slowly,
bringing promise and hope
as the night disappears
and the moon turns to gauze.
Spring cannot be far away
I think as I witness this change,
and hope for that promise
in a winter without end.


The fields of yesterday in which I roamed,
Are no longer recognizable to my eyes.
Those fields have now been landscaped,
Into finely kept lawns and flower beds,
Spilling out into streets and cul-de-sacs,
From the houses that occupy that place.

The narrow gravel road on which I biked,
Is but a memory across the span of time.
Now, from horizon to horizon it snakes,
Sinuously, undulating in four-lane glory,
Carrying the commerce of the nation
Upon its asphalt back, into our world.

The rolling, wavy pastures of alfalfa grass
From which I once herded cows to barn,
Are but a foggy memory of my youth,
Replaced now by eighteen holes of splendor;
Manicured greens, sandtrapped hazards,
Filled with foursomes in bright regalia.

The farm pond where once I lazed,
Spending resplendent, dazzling summers,
Catching bluegills with hook and worm,
No longer is the place I knew so well.
It’s been enlarged, now made a lake,
Too crowded for one boy’s solitude.

The woods in which I hunted squirrels,
And sought out nature on her terms,
Has been bulldozed and over paved,
A shopping mall is now ensconced.
Modern stores of brick and glass
Have pushed aside stately oak and ash.

Though the distance from those days
Can be measured by me in years,
It seems that the changes I have seen
Are more vast than time can tell.
In one boy’s life, to become a man,
I have lost the places I once loved.