At the entrance

danced a number 

of deep purple 

poppy flowers,

Clock 

     ticking-

rain 

     dripping-

my wife tossing, 

and turning 

in a creaking

blanketed bed 

She is disturbed that I am not there,

that I withhold my warmth

I cannot sleep,

darkness will not 

embrace me.

Morpheus 

let me be,

send no more wing'd

liars through that

gate of ivory.

clock 

     ticking-

rain

     dripping-

each

dull 

rhythmic

drip-tick

seems as 

if something 

is tapping 

on the 

ceiling 

of my 

skull.

something is tapping 

to escape its cage,

something is longing for

a voice of its own, 

something I have neglected

for far too long,

Tick

     drip

Tick

     drip

Tick?

Surfacing From Her Subterranean Home

Persephone,
The Maiden,
    re-emerges with
eyes as wide as the
sky umbrella overhead


to be away
from that winter


to have the earth burst beneath my feet
like a handful of pomegranate seeds


to distance myself from the despair
I felt at her disappearance.


The golden orb,
the laughing sun,
is nearly as large
as a little fingertip
held up at arm's length.


cyclic and circadian disorder
the lessened amount of light
in winter weighed
heavily upon me


Persephone,
The Maiden,
     re-emerges with
my rhythm and sanity.

can they see the threads fraying?

can they feel this body dying
all around them?
i can


sometimes this is all
i can feel
the loss of another day another
second slipping
its hand around my throat


lines forming-
cycles circles- 
clocks 
ticking.
oblivious
of the meaning


                        birth
               school       work
           death                  birth
                school       work
                       death


friends & family
negation


congregation
as we awaken &
question:


entropy
just above my eyes
atrophying compassion
apathy as an offering


god
i can see it 
fading
i focus on it 
closing


i beg the bleak question 
of mortality
i search the books
i read to my children


which so brilliantly
brought it to my attention
in the sheer enjoyment


& endless 
carefree abandon
written on their 
fresh faces


the secret is there
in simple amazement

Do we stop playing when we grow old,  

or only grow old when we stop playing?

what was left...

I stood in what once was an old wood

next to what was left of an old home

Southern Red Oak dead

and broken 

into a figure 8 almost

silent towering 

Sweetgum

splintered & tossed about

Broken fingers, 

and back 

of the world

twisted around

family photographs 

strewn along 

the path of destruction

What method determined

which ones were chosen?

“That's a sound my son
will never forget,” he said .

Crawling in the mud

beneath the old oaks

and massive pines

lying prostrate 

bowing before

the power of the storm

Their trunks trembling

with every roar of thunder

the rain incessant

and appearing crystallized

frozen in time and sky

with every violent

white-hot flash

of electricity 

His many  

dogs baying,

howling,

barking

knowing instinctively

that this is a primordial

force,

this is not a force

made by God-

this is God itself

if God exists.

He said, “They say thank God,
well I myself don’t have too much to say to him.”

He looked around at

his ruined
personal

possessions

Wiped his eyes,

lifted his chainsaw

to start again.