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Saturday, September 26, 2009


Whitecaps on the water
cut between the season’s embers,
the wind whipping down from the north,
breathing cold

Rumor has it that
death and sleep are but distant cousins –
watch a streetlight strain itself to illuminate
an overcast morning

A lady in work boots walks,
coffee in hand, her hair blown in a gust,
determination defining each stride she takes...
making an impression in the moment

Clouds align themselves in rows
marching across the valley behind a windswept flock
as it folds back upon itself not once, but twice –
an orderly dance through chaos

There is this illusion that
there is nothing left when we are no longer here to see it,
much as we assume that everything we witness
must therefore be real

A hedge burns, flame red, where it watches
over a lane set aside for things that don’t really matter
to pass along, devoid of expectation
and external observation

But seasons weren’t placed here
to be like street signs, laid out
to assist distracted drivers
(albeit it is a good conceit)

And there are those who are dying,
even as I write these words,
no less touched by them than those
who live on, never reading them

Each wave, ripped by the
winter’s coming chill, shares so much
with those that follow it...
and so it must be.

Sunday, September 06, 2009

The Gypsy Dance

You should dance
a gypsy dance
and I should
build the fire
to watch you by,
to sit until scorched
and then dare myself
not to move
until the morning breeze
lifts away my ashes

There is passion
in the wine
cradled in the
tear shaped bosom
of its glass,
a potent sorrow
crying out to be consumed
to sweat
to steam
to crawl
inside of you
and melt
within the music,
the swirling, throbbing tempo
coming banging
banging, banging
with no edges,
just the driving
dripping heat
that begs to swallow thirst
and drown in the
parched and arid
chambers of my heart

You should dance
that gypsy dance
and I
should sip of it
and ache the haunted
ache of shadows
as the bow cries
across the string
and every movement
bleeds its passion
until the flame
implodes and all
I know as mine
is gone

You should dance
that gypsy dance
so that I might awaken
drenched with fever
not knowing
whether this exists
in this world
or the next
or that it matters when
the cold distance
cannot squelch
the embers from your fire
and I know that I
will feel the music again
dripping blood
and that I will sit
smoldering in the heart
of unquenchable love
and that I will
watch you
as you dance
as you dance

I will watch you
as you dance.