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Running up Moonbeams

Running up Moonbeams


Between life and death is a magical space

Where dreams are born, for you to chase

Some begin early and are dashed too soon

Others elusive, like the beams of the moon


Every once in a while as your path you traverse

From swaddled in a cot, to laid out in a hearse

Two souls will converge in a blending of time

As two become one, and in silent mime


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lost loved onememories from pastresurrectionsweet dreams



She shimmers gold as barley

hands firm on trembling thighs 

in landscapes insignificant

where painted memories dry


the meadow fills all senses

where they’d laid the grass pressed down

her soft wrists under palms

flesh opened like a silken gown


stretching low he holds the earth

like god made mortal now comes pain

and as the memory faded then

it flows ...

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There must be a death
if there is to be a resurrection;
The demise of something
in part or the whole of:
that portion of one's being...
Only then shall we see
with eyes new as morning's first light.
Only then shall we have
reinvented ourselves:
allow ourselves to take the first steps
laden with amnesia
of the former, forgotten self.
Come and cease...

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In Poetry

entry picture


In poetry, autumn is approaching death.

The mists of receding memory

part briefly in the shortening days

to feed the fruits of wisdom

to admiring young.

The dark night of winter

is a short blight

before life springs forth

again in proud perfection.

Floral beauty and rich crops

have spread their radiance,

fed their progeny, sown their seeds.

Done their job, returned to earth

to ...

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