Rains Descend

Rains descend upon my head The sky grows dark and chill The rush surround my mind and soul To freeze my halting will Clouds move o’er the dawning sun And halt the marching light My vision dims throughout the morn And shrinks into the night Fogs envelope mind and frame The world becomes a haze …

The Main Thing

Like a convalescent, I took the hand stretched down from the jetty, sensed again an alien comfort as I stepped on ground to find the helping hand still gripping mine, fish-cold and bony, but whether to guide or to be guided I could not be certain. For the tall man in step at my side …

re: Poetry

Poetry that is timeless is inevitably lyrical.  If it does not sing - if it does not move - if it does not engage the soul - than it is simply dead wind; a fart drifting amidst the rotting leaves.