Often, in the Tabernacle of Us


You touch my face with the delicateness
of spring’s breath
and I swear I hear the heartbeat
of the universe.

Your smile is a songbird heralded sunrise
and I am the summer morning to greet,
my senses chime clear
as a crystal bell.

Now and again, our lips
are the melding of soft rose petal and dew,
or primal indulgence of
animals famished.

Often, in the tabernacle of us,
I worship our love with words in holy moments,
I give offerings mined from
deepest fissures of
my soul.

There Is A Sad Beauty In It All

As careworn August bids farewell,

A quick and rankled tally’s taken

And chilled rain falling does foretell,

September leaves will soon be shaken.


The birds all sing their austere songs

Though, somehow rudely made to comply,

Geese are forming in their great throngs,

I suppose soon they’ll all wave goodbye.


And melancholy dreams will come

As, October leaves turn regal gold,

The apple saplings will look glum

As, mornings seem to grow ever cold.


Yes, all will bow to autumn’s grace

And soon enough the long days will wane

As, November’s nip slaps our face,

The Sitka roses, will be found slain.


And so lions of winter will roar

As, December’s wraiths sprinkle frost,

Some will scoff at coming snowy chore

As, ponds and lakes are froze and glossed.


Chimneys will bellow and winds will whip,

Chickadees will shiver in trees,

And beside fires we’ll sip tea and quip

As, winter’s spell brings a deep freeze.


And then we’ll wake as if from nightmare

As, joyous chickadees all sing,

To find that winter has gone elsewhere,

Shooed away by returning spring.

Incarnations and Misconceptions

Source: Incarnations and Misconceptions

Termination (Villanelle)

I’ve dreamt of winter, it made me shiver,
I’ve breathed my cold breath upon a window,
The blood roses are starting to wither.

Sun peeked from clouds; it was but a sliver.
I think December is forcing a row.
I’ve dreamt of winter, it made me shiver.

I saw geese fly-over in a dither,
I’ve seen the chimneys starting to billow.
The blood roses are starting to wither.

For some reason, the squirrels seem bitter,
Jumping back and forth amongst the willow.
I’ve dreamt of winter, it made me shiver.

I heard the, Titmouse and Sparrows blither,
Highest mountain peaks already have snow.
The blood roses are starting to wither.

I swear I can hear a soulful zither,
A few hints of fall are starting to show,
I’ve dreamt of winter, it made me shiver,
The blood roses are starting to wither.


She Had an Alter-Ego That Needed Its Own Kingdom

“I hope everyone read their assignments!”
She made me nervously pick at my fingers,
bite the inside of my mouth like someone
who’s had too much coffee. Her beady eyes
saw all, she could see the lies before they came
out of your mouth. I’m sure someone wrote a
mystery novel about her or at least dark fanzine
about a high school English teacher who ruled
with a Cleopatra persona. Catcher in The Rye, To
Kill a Mockingbird, Watership Down, she knew
every word, every character, every setting. She
was bound and determined to make you a part of
her literary kingdom, “The classics are there to enrich,
to enlighten, to persuade the oblivious mind into
something more.” I’ve forgotten her name, but not
her words.

Oh, Beautiful World Bathed In Pain

Oh, beautiful world bathed in pain,

How are stars silent, hovering over

Your stage, why are the rains not as

Salty as mournful tears acquiescing?


Play the dirge of disheartened years

With sullied notes, a requiem as flush

As the palest lily, nowise flourished,

Lain within cold sorrow kissed tombs.


They, who are to answer for your strife,

Lie in misery, though dreaming unaware

With twitching fingers and eyes behind

Folds of skin that do not hide their fault.


Some are closer to Hades than Heaven,

These vessels wither under your wrap

Whilst unsullied yet pray, striving with

Vision, that has no need of fleshly cover.

Incarnations and Misconceptions

Does sun produce romance just because of its warm rays?
Does moon deliberately enthrall the heart to beg? These are
questions for sensitive minds who transcribe soul’s dialect.
Some bourgeois minds are often lead astray by words, they
eat them like pain-killers, hallucinate on them wildly like
magic mushrooms, ingesting them to escape reality, or to
live vicariously in them. Words reach out with tendrils
sometimes crushing, sometimes liberating they affect and
I bleed from a spirit very old. I whitewash nothing sharing
what must be shared, saying what must be said, painting in
nouns, syllables and emotive diction to simply express;
what is linked to past, present and future, concurrently.
Though I write of love it may be as far from me as the stars
though I write of hate, it is buried deep as earth’s heart.
Let not my words muddle you, let not my soulful timbres
snare you, but more so provoke, what needs to be felt.