pale airless moon floats
like a porthole in the pastel blue sky
unblinking witness to this shut-eyed world
because there has to be one watcher
to chronicle the wicked and wonderful ways;
there has to be one untouchable face
preserving beauty like unrefined silver
never to be mined but to be yearned for

life          moves          forward
e v e r y s i n g l e o n e o f u s
we accelerate without choice
rolling on rubber wheelers
or walkingrunning on these feet
hopping/jumping/skipping/skating
every breath is a step into the future
each beat of our bloody hearts
presses us ahead…

nothing
stands
still

there is no end,
even the running down is running;
deterioration to death is still an act
and what’s left is remade into another
that drives ahead…is pulled ahead
forever onward…

what?
shall we languish
in mists and cold nights
ere our life ekes away?
or is there not more
outside our halls
in the wider world?
a sun perhaps to warm by;
a moon and many stars
to sing with silver light
and shape our dreams?
let us trade our hollows
and step out our doors
for something greater
than fear…

an unfettered life

when i’m alone i like to leave on the light
that with the shadows cast back to night
i can carry on the day’s illusion of sight,
and in so doing it is possible that i might
find a certain peace of mind, however slight
as i sleep a deeper sleep and continue to fight
against encroaching disease, this present blight,
til’ morning comes with risen hope – however slight

i woke up warm and dripping in god
wondering where the heat had come from
while the day was a festival of fire
blazing behind my window’s curtains
there was no sense to the moment
and, in fear of drying off and out
i pulled up the sheets and fell back asleep
seeking to drown perhaps

every hot lead bullet that is let fly
is the hope of a weak man far away
that, in its tearing, a mother might cry
and so in a country’s lifted winded wail
the weak men of the opposite far away
might finally pack it in and turn tail;
and so it goes with every waste of war,
sons and daughters rend and are rent
that some glory is found on some false shore
that it might be poured like blood soaked sand
into a nation’s pretty, empty glass jar –
a display of how death is at our command
while we, as we unman, are unmanned

the god of war
is fire on the eastern horizon
bringing omen of ill-will
trailing plague, death and destruction
all for the setting of his love in the west
so he rages in isolation
till they can share the same sky again

Virginia is watching
the places I go
and she listens to
the words I say
she is Argus
of ears and eyes
while holding
the shears of Fate
killing Anonymous
in ironic anonymity

what if
I am the dark
that I fear
so much?

what if
I am the night
that others
get lost in?

what if
I am that
which needs to be dispelled
for light to shine?

how much of me
must I lose
that I might be found?

how much echo
is left behind
if you take away the sound?