Category: Peace

A Song of Starshine

In this lonely field I hear her as the last of twilight falls.

In the chill air of the meadow sounds the loveliest of calls.

No, I don’t know where it comes from, I just hear the lady sing,

and the starlight starts to shine above the ancient meadow’s ring.

The first notes sound the loneliest, and far afield, and sad,

but when the star fire blazes, there’s a cheerful shift to glad.

No moon tonight? No matter.

See? The stars shine just the same.

And one day I hope to see her,

and to learn her ancient name.

For now though, let the wolves be calm

throughout the wheeling night.

I loathe to use my staff or blade,

or stitch the deep-fanged bite.

My smooth-stoned seat’s beneath me

as the song fades in the trees.

And yet no sound of fleeing feet.

She makes sure no one sees.

See how the stars are shining bright

for comfort, guidance, dreams,

and wishes stored for children, lovers,

silencing the screams

that plague us in the night time hours.

Sometimes they are mine.

I wish to never hear the end

of singing stars to shine.

Love’s Last Pyre

And in the ever-growing distance,

the last husk of love lays

beneath

a glaze of frost.

The fire burned long, but slow.

In time, it smoldered, with ribbons of fire

still lacing the entrails,

still bright against the night sky.

The fragrance turned to stench,

but the winds of autumn cleared the air.

In time, I stopped turning back to look.

In time, I stopped searching.

In time, I became the husk,

dried, imperfect, indifferent to

the pending blade of harvest.

But it’s quiet here, and sometimes

loneliness sits next to me,

and sings her little songs of

how nice it could be.

But I’m tired now, and

the sound of another voice

in my space would prove

too intrusive, too expectant,

and redistribute long set boundaries,

or rebuild long standing walls.

I’ll let the silence reign, and the

solitude ring.

And other times, I wonder

if there are any more

embers

left beneath the pyre,

protected

from the

frost.

is any ember left in the pyre,

protected

from the

frost.

The Vale of Love

She took him to a quiet place

so beautiful to see.

A place of fragrant flowers,

cool green grass

and fruitful tree.

“Now pledge your love to me,” she said

“And I will pledge to you.”

“I cannot pledge,” he answered

“for my love would prove untrue.”

“What jest is this?” she asked in rage,

her brow now stern and cross.

“I love another, fool. Now go! Begone and take the loss.”

The dagger point just broke his skin.

“The only loss is life, for when we loved

you pledged your heart and promised me to wife.”

“I care not if you love me now.

I will not be a fool, so you will be my husband

til your dotage when you drool.”

He fought her for his lady love,

fought long and hard and rough.

They both were bruised and bloody,

and the scarred skin would get tough.

But in the end, she held his heart

cupped in her broken hands,

and walked and walked and walked with it

to far and distant lands.

And somewhere in the Vail of Love

a heartless man does lie.

For legend says the Vail of Hearts

is where loves go to die.

Muttered Rage

In the muddy, midden corners of its cage

my rage

mutters, stutters, hiccups, sobs,

and folds in on itself

like a

dying flower.

Hate and anger climb to the surface

with sharp spikes and strong ropes,

as I work to cut their ties with

love’s violent sword.

Darkness dots my spirit like lawn weeds

and whack-a-moles.

The decayed and rotting past seeks to

coddle me, cuddle me, clobber me,

and sing the listless lullaby that induces

paralyzing ennui masked as sleep.

At the end of this gauntlet stands Death,

coated with cold, and patient as river stones

waiting to to wreck me on sodden, craggy points that

will break my spirit like rotten boughs broken off

a vibrant, growing tree, and

scatter my flesh

like fish bait.

And nightly, as the sun wanes and the moon waxes,

I realize that after all this time,

the cage was never locked.

Knowledge Among Ruins

I was lost, for how long I don’t remember.

There was only day night, hill and river, hill and river.

At the summit lay the ruins of a long forgotten castle, or fort,

pummeled by centuries of elements.

It sat now like a petrified toad on the hillside, with only

the sighing mountains for company.

Taking shelter from the strengthening winds,

I sat, closing my eyes, succumbing to the exhaustion of the climb.

Beneath your hands, a treasure lies…

A voice, but disembodied.

Go on, partake…

I scratched the soil with calloused fingers.

Open, and speak the words…

“I don’t know the language.”

It will know you, traveler. Speak them.

And so I did.

I no longer see the ruins, the sun, the starry sky, the sentient stones, the mountains, the spring grass, nor dunes of frosted snow.

I have become all,  my memory seeded into the land, and

all the land seeded into me.

The book still lies just beneath the spongy soil’s surface.

Partake…

No Quiet Silence

There is no quiet silence.

there’s the turning of the page,

a peal of laughter,

a snatch of conversation, innocuous and inane,

the rush of wind over the ears,

the rustling sway of wind-dancer branches,

the susurration of the sea,

the cracking of the baking soil,

the buzz and click and hum of droning insects,

the sizzle of fires

the churning core of the world birthing mountains

the hiss and patter of the blizzard’s snowfall

the wail of the newborn,

the dying sigh of the old.

And death itself is only sleep,

as restless spirits manifest to tell us all:

There is no quiet silence.

 

Bereft

The westering sun feels good

across my shoulders,

but it will not be up

much longer.

 

The days shorten, and soon

Winter’s teeth

will nip and pull

on Autumn’s dry teats.

 

The narrow crag

between

the high cliffs

bids me enter.

 

And I know the diasporic eyes

of the cave dwellers

will mark my passing.

 

My sword in hand,

useless against their numbers,

yet all I have,

may one day tell the bloody tale

of what happened here.

 

There will be no light to guide me,

for even the stars fear to shine on this place.

 

My soul begins its dirge,

and I step into

my story’s end.

 

Long Road, Short Time

Splash, skip

jump, flip

stick your tongue out

pout your lip

 

Grow, play

run, pray

getting taller

every day

 

Chores, toys

birthday joys,

making friends with

girls and boys

 

School, sports

jeans, shorts

staying focused

out of sorts

 

College years,

drinking beers,

childish anger,

grown-up fears.

 

Career, life

children, wife

Partners team to

deal with strife

 

Kids adults now,

partners old,

summer years

turn into gold.

 

Partner leaves,

one remains, wipes away

the teary stains

 

sits, porch

love’s torch,

lonely heart is

feeling scorched.

 

silence, loud

family crowd,

grandson gently

pulls the shroud

 

Broke hearts

tears flow

in the ground

they watch you go.

 

end of days,

end of rhyme.

 

Long Road,

short time.

 

Let These Words be True

So when all is said and done,

and I’ve seen my final sun,

and the final tale is spun,

who will say what I have won?

 

Have I touched a human life?

Relieved someone else’s strife?

Offered comfort, peace, and love

to someone I’d rather shove?

 

Have I made a small child smile?

Did I walk the extra mile?

Did I listen for awhile?

Aided someone through a trial?

 

Did my giving of a gift

give a trodden spirit lift?

Did my words that gave approval

lead to heavy load’s removal?

 

Did the music that I play

brighten someone else’s day?

Did the lessons that I taught

make the out-of-reach get caught?

 

Perhaps I will never know,

for I do it as I go.

From the surgeon to the skater,

plant a seed that may grow later.

 

May these words I write be true.

May they be true of you, too.

When Evening Falls

When evening falls

I come to this place.

I like the way the colors of night

gather to say goodbye

to the colors of day.

 

The birds claim their beds

with songs of belonging,

and the rustling brush whispers

as the chipmunks find their dens.

 

The evening stars

peer through the forest canopy,

bright and clear.

 

A bright moon pokes its shiny face

over a distant mountain like a child

burrowing from under the covers

to favor me with a smile.

 

And somewhere nearby

is the sound of running water

I’ve never tried to find.

 

I name it

Evening Falls,

and take the pleasant path

toward home.