vision so vital
to all a poet is;
silent beauty whispers
its miracles only
to those listening.

the poet cursed
with eyes and ears
the clamor of
a living, dying world
inundates
their soul

finding refuge
from the deluge
in a quiet stream of stanzas

never realizing the blessing
of the eye of the poet

until all the words have dried

That July,
I was a jar
of fireflies;
you held
me in your
hands. I
lit up your eyes.

Once upon a rhyme I had belief
my life contained some wisdom to be shared
with those around me.  So my soul was bared
to spare my readers pain, perhaps some grief,
or offer up examples good and bad.
Foot by foot the path was measured out
upon a trail of no uncertain doubt
until the sacred truth would be forbade.
On walking down this road none cared to take
the woods throw shadows, light and dark alike
upon new mornings, nights of memories.
This too, this too shall pass.  On this I'll stake
what life remains, in hope in time to strike
a trail through all the vague uncertainties.

Tchaikovsky heard
the bipolar duality
of his nation
Rimsky-Korsakov
the mediator
between two
implacable forces
Stravinsky captured perfectly
the strident cacophony
of revolution
Shostakovich
screamed his love
for all his people
in the face of a dictator

can you not hear their music?

Is there therapy
enough for a whole nation
to heal its schism?

You were here yesterday
For just a moment I saw you
Bag on your arched back
Frown on your face
With darting dilated eyes
Changed...rather altered
In so short a time
From the best piece of me
Into the addicted you
That held no favor anymore
For the old familiar one
So starved for the chaos
That the demon feeds you
That you never noticed me
Begging in anguish for you
To be you again
Inside my head
Over and over and over
And then you were gone
I couldn't stop you
I couldn't fix you
But I still love you
You are living too fast
While I die too slow