

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
