Saturday, July 30, 2005


July 17, 2005

Fades the day to fairy night,
grows the dark from deep twilight which,
dawn or dusk, bears semblance of remains
of life and love and solitary days.

Twinkles fire of fairies bright,
fades the western pale of light;
tales of love may yet unfold
as patience waits through trials untold.

Fields of green transform to citrine blaze,
as fairies dance in wild romance
and fancies of the mind,
leaving mundane thoughts behind,
seeking not to grieve nor to repine.

Let me dance with fairies,
in the fields of citrine night,
under skies of diamonds bright,
with clover in my hair, honey on the breeze,
breasts bared to the deepening dark,
until I too am free and laughing fiercely
at the thundering sky.

Twilight Majesty

July 17, 2005

The waters calm
as the eve draws on;
crickets sing
their darkening theme.
Cicadas now are few,
but they still sing
still sing they do,
and hymn Your twilight majesty-
they bear Your glory unto me.

Listen close to water’s swell
here beside the city well;
mark the trill of bird,
the moan of beast;
the greatest hymn,
and also least.

What have I deserved
at the hands of Heaven
to sit beside this
portal to another time and place
partaking, solitary, of Your grace?

Easily do clouds
drift on the fading sky-
weary do I pen the beauty of the sight.
All within me yearns for light
against the pale of coming night.
I grieve the loss of clarity,
but glory in the hymn of twilight.

All is well.
Day shall come again
too soon.

A Fair Intoxicant

July 17, 2005

I long to know the name of those sweet birds
that skim the waters of the reservoir.
No reason can I see except delight
when so meek a creature interrupts his flight
to test the measure of causation
entailed within a life so slight.
And yet, the glory of the moment
when the ripples set to motion
seems a fair intoxicant for one of his measure.

And I rise to find a smooth, flat stone
to skip across the reservoir;
make some ripples of my own...

A fair intoxicant for one of my measure.

Sylvan Lea

July 17, 2005

I spy great white-cloud vessels
upon the azure deep above,
as softly sings the water of the reservoir.
I rest upon a somewhat sylvan lea
and dream of grander things than me.


June 18, 2005- completed July 17, 2005

I found no answer
in the mirror; only doubts
and more questions.

I am not so young
as I seem; eternity
exists in my sighs;

in the midst of this silence,
endless days upon my tears.

Tuesday, July 05, 2005

Independence Day

July 5, 2005
2:18 AM

For a friend. Thank you.

I wonder,
do you know who you are right now?

There’s no way you could,

Sitting atop the sycamore
you practically dared me to climb,
blithely mounting her limbs,
scaling her height,
making the crook of her arms
your resting place;

making it look easy.

I followed you,
shimmied up the branch
I couldn’t reach otherwise,
clambered from foothold to foothold
in shoes made for other
less daring ventures.

I’m twenty-nine years old;
you, six years my junior...

But here we sit,
atop my sycamore,
gazing out and down
at leaves we’ve only ever seen
from without...

I’m smiling in spite of my fear.

Spontaneity has turned me inside out;
I am not so mundane as I supposed,
and there is freedom in this
simple moment, where I do not question
your motives nor your thoughts.

I am content simply to be with you.

George MacDonald

"Home is ever so far away in the palm of your hand, and how to get there it is of no use to tell you. But you will get there; you must get there; you have to get there. Everybody who is not at home, has to go home."

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