Night Hours
The padding feet of night,
thudding footfall,
frighten off the light;
the owl calls
beneath a moon hot-white
with ashen face.
Soft and silken grace
melds with breeze,
struggles to keep pace
with hours as each flees,
unruly in the chase,
harried in its flight.
The Spirit Falls Like Sleep
The Spirit falls like sleep,
like waking soars
from out our heartfelt inner cores;
the radical rooted deep
intends like breath, extends like breath,
each inspiration new,
sudden storm yet silent dew,
as soft and swift as death;
inspires He, entices He,
upon the deep He broods,
expiring dreams and moods,
a living breath and free.
Tristan and Iseult
A poison sweet,
honey-like,
bitter to feel,
swiftly spreads,
fire,
through vein and flesh,
bewitching mind and body,
overcoming both.
Ah,
but necessity is temptation,
witchery fades to treason,
youth fails,
enervated,
bud withers,
blossoms fail in blight.
From love that hides springs joy that dies.
Only rot remains,
grave ghosts.
Can hope be reclaimed,
redrawn?
No.
Bitter winds drive hard bargains,
black sails bring suicide.
