Up here there is no shelter
from the sun or storm,
only rock, grass, wild flowers,
water, and the tree line
far below. I sit like a guru
gazing across the valley
at mountaintops miles away
who, like stone masters,
disregard my glance, impart
wonder beyond description.
the hallowed halls
ring hollow with words,
reeking of self-preservation.
indeed if ghosts
still pass through these walls,
the living do all the haunting.
* This is a follow up to my poem alma mater. How far will they go to build monuments upon the souls crushed by the machine created from sport and bloated endowments?
we try to translate love
by expanding unfamiliar
rules in directions favoring
our comfort. most times
we succeed only in pulling
the blanket over our heads
at the expense of souls
shivering in our shared space.
the woodpile runs low
while the cold closes
around us, lightly tapping
our faces with flakes
of snow. how long
can the fire rebuff
the frigid wind,
or do we waste time
staring into flames
rather than the eyes
of those around us?
I had not seen her in years,
but she was gone long ago.
A living apparition
of flesh and blood, a blurry
tintype that haunts forever.
Now it is over. Shade
transcends from the shadows,
and something more like light
spreads through the quiet air.
* From my book, Awaiting the Images
Awaiting the Images 