Note: I am trying to post something at least three or four times per year. This is a collection of small and unfinished poems, most of which were written some time ago.

 

Moth’s Wing   Lay the tulips softly, withered hand; Grass has crept onto the dirt And skirts the ashen stone.   The first touch of her fingers Had been a golden moth’s wing beneath the moon; A silver-blue shape at your brother’s wedding dance, With laughing eyes.     Freedom   There is a lady, tall and green, And from the her shores the distant, Hollow voice of freedom rings:   Distant, shrouded a veil Of time and thought, and spread With soot by wiser men,   Who dangle in the marketplace The pretty things that everyone Must have, and then, in goodness, say:   “See how our trinkets glitter In the light, but only may be bought With copper coins from France.”     Lost   Remember how we used to wander, Father, Among the weeds and through the jumbled stones? You sought me as I’ve never sought another I felt your hand on mine, I was your own.   Remember how I used to brush the grave-tops, Not fearing that I’d have my own some day? I followed you, and tried to match your footsteps And cared not, knowing you would see the way.   Remember how I listened to your stories And hung on every word, on every thought? ‘Twas then I knew you as my place of refuge, And without you I knew that I was naught.     The Sea   Depths of brooding green, Marbled shades of cold and endless blue; A wild thought subdued: Beauty, clothed in dark and furious waves   White whips of spray tear madly at the wind, Crown every rolling top, And fade away.   And I – - I watch in silence, Slip by each wave, Slip by each thought.     Soul like Water   Those passing smile: Jeans are free and shirts loose, Autumn winds cross waving poplars   The park walk hears them Shuffling, laughing And some banter about Charlie’s new girl   Though invisible rain were falling, I could see: Shirts clinging wet, winds biting, Hands dug deeper into pockets, Empty,   Painted smiles washed away; Charlie’s love is dust; It clings as mud