WAY OF THE WORLD

slow formations 

stone by stone

the hours uncounted

the work of one

the labor of many

and nothing he can call his own

these images of time

keep on returning

new stories emerging

different names         

other players

but the same old game

glory redounds upon the brave

them that's got still get their way

them that's not will struggle and strive

for it takes a muscle to survive

the way of the world

where the bitter comes with the sweet

where any gratification

is in the knowing

not in fulfillment of the need

where every answer is a lie

and truth

that seldom heard reply

has a shrill sound

for in the end

nothing's lost

and nothing's found​

​​

source R.W. Emerson

NOTES ON HOPPER

NOTES ON HOPPER

poems 

THE HOURGLASS

November 

the cruelest month 

night creeps along the floor

the furniture ready to flee

shies away from the cold

gaze of the callous moonlight

a lace tablecloth

frivolously 

flaunts its righteousness while

the daffodils grin and smirk

poisonous 

in their yellow arrogance 

the hands of the clock are stalled

like in a deadlock even

time is holding its breath

while the trees rooted deep

soundless and undisturbed

ever witnessing

the hands are dealt

the cards are played

we don’t know but we

suspect our life has a twin    

in another place

in another time

​

​

​

MY NAME IS

LAST ROOM

the drone of the streets

murmuring

whispering 

of fire in the belly

fading

cars hoot

a child's cry 

cuts through 

divides 

here, there

ongoing motion

memories flood in 

sound and color

so close

behind the window

no hand moves

lungs fill up

slowly 

heavy 

this body sighs

but the words

the words

keep coming

charging

laying seige

overthrowing

and words

bear words

unknown

yet perfectly

the story unfolds

unwinds

then reclines

TOWARDS THE SEA