Month: August 2020

Needle in the vein
accentuated the pain
and the sad song
was lost in the rain.

He was killing time
by the bottle and the wine
sold his songs
for a pitiful dime

Nothing is perfect,
nothing is final,
like smoke and mist
all things drift
and reform,
this is how
we are reborn.

Around the long table
we were a quartet,
warmed by the fire
and the easy sociability
of friendship; outside
the sky was weeping
but we spoke of Ovid and
Virgil and Dylan and of
the joys of the road
bestowed on us here.

She sings an aching song,
her voice carries it across
the star-studded sky to the
far-away reaches of heart
and soul; she is the echo of
what we cannot hold onto.

I wonder sometimes how much
of a haven is my heart, how
strong is its roof and how guarded
its door; but for now, I think it
sufficient to hold this love that
is resting there.

Sometimes, midst the turmoil of
love and commitment, spontaneity
and responsibility, we are lost to
one another; but if I did find you
again, in what safe place should I
keep you?

From the kitchen, the aroma of fresh coffee
and bacon in the frying pan, wafts lazily
across the breakfast hour, reminding us
that this is where heart and home are
built, right here beneath the sun.

In the morning, we pull back the curtain
from the cottage window and there
sits the sun, waiting in the urban, yellow
yard, a warm and quiet welcome to this
day, gifted us while we slept.