Golden Ring

Sing like hell, as bees embolden flowers,

powers of your charm demand I bring

spring bouquets and mixed arrangements,

strange events, these fixed estrangements,

change lends tone to bell toll’s golden ring.


Lo, I have so many of your flowers,

showers of affection from your beau,

though you, I concede that it’s true,

do forget to take them with you,

new ones yet appear after you go.


Thieves of sunlight fill the room, these flowers,

hours after petals bloom, day leaves,

grieves me, does the nettled evening,

leaving laughter, gift receiving,

weaving wooing words my heart believes.


Right around me rise these growing flowers,

towers of such glowing, captured light,

quite enraptured, watch them piling,

smiling, why, it’s so beguiling,

whiling till I come to you this night.


Asylum in the Wild Blue

When the wind blew hollow

with a warning of impending guile,

and the sea was teeming

with the hue of a seeming wile,

I took asylum in the wild


ever following the wending clew,

tracing all the way from wild


to the mildly dreaming morning dew.

To desire like a child,

all the simple desperation of a screaming fire,

is the only song I know

in the key of your beaming smile.


When your gaze rose higher

to a view of demurring skies,

as they paled, feeling envy

at the style of your wooing eyes,

subtle teasing of the wild


and the heavens seem rather tame,

hardly pleasing as the wild


only yours are worthy of that claim.

Like the singing of a choir,

hallowed lyric worth defending with the fiercest pride,

bending knee, chorus bringing,

rise again with ev’ry new reprise.


When the dawn comes calling

and the stars are humming low,

and the wish I was dreaming

runs away like a melting snow,

cloak my spirit in the wild


an allure lighter than the breeze,

soak my body in the wild


an azure deeper than the seas,

beauty wilder than the flames

dancing hot upon the brazier of my secret name.

Just to see them as they wake,

is the wildest of the wishes I could ever make,

but till then I will watch them

soft at rest like a moonlit glow.


My comma,

you stay me,

I lay for your laws,

I pray that I’ll find you

before my next clause.

You offer perfection,

such gorgeous inflection,

to what was a story

defined by its flaws.

You give me direction,

a chance for reflection,

a dance to the song of my heart,

so here’s my rendition,

an honest collection,

the truth from which I cannot part,

a listed edition,

of my recognition,

and these words are merely the start.

Captive, Clover

Out in the cold

and biting sorrow

I took a stroll.

I paid my toll and crossed the bridge

into tomorrow.

A lonely toll it was to pay,

to leave that place

in yesterday.

This odd old bridge,

somehow I only

could cross one way.


I saw the lights

and heavy din

which liars set

their stories in.

I saw the lands of fabled story,

each uttered verse of able glory.

I bled and shuddered.

Frantic, I fled.


Each epic verse, romantic pome,

and spoken curse or writ semantic,

felt merely sad,

threatened to drive me nearly mad

with tortured longing,

not for to roam,

but for my home.


And so I sit here where you found me,

beleaguered captive of the clover grown around me,

never again the eager rover,

sitting at the bridge which I can never cross back over.


Surely, each renewed, then ebbing

rich and rhythmic shadow fallen

cross the golden, soft enduring

ringing glow from ember come,

fell to gently rest, alighting

quietly in place to offer

proud, precise, syllabic cadence

calling song from steady hum.


Faithfully, the ancient sybil takes a voice and lightly roars,

Hark! The honeyed voice abounding, clearly I discern is yours.

Yes! The ringing bell and singing belle are one, the very same.

Lo, the esoteric whispered lyric is your very name.


Each a note, yet all a chorus,

twilight razing, quite inviting,

how harmonious my passion,

this each burning ember keeps.

Here, the cooling, night engulfing,

quiet-making, calm and pulsing,

all a-smolder bedded embers,

surely here the fire sleeps.


And if it sleeps, the fire dreams,

oh hell, I always knew.

Fire dreams its fiery dreams and

burns just like I do.

And yearns just like I do

to turn and shake and wake anew,

for when I rise, before my eyes

my fiery dream come true.

And I’ll be damned if fire is made of

anything but you.

Calling Home

Brick of mud and clay, nor rarest ore, nor timber tall,

truth is not by these housed or buffered,

and so a home is not

an edifice.

The precipice

from which we peer is wrought

from that which we have not yet suffered,

so you leap, a hope you keep to find home when you fall.


Leading today,

footfall raising dust then,

though only rising till it settles,

so artful, footsteps who appear to be approaching.

Tomorrow harken we, not praising, but reproaching,

no longer clover, only nettles,

iron graced with rust when

leading away.


Flushing the slightest honeyed harmony from thunder,

witness when foot and dust meet mildly,

hum and pleasing cadence,

when to my fore.

Then, do no more

come my teasing maiden’s

traces in gentle step, now wildly

rushing, a tempest borne, and now we lay asunder.


Calling to roam,

traversing ice and sand,

scattering to the world’s very end,

where, not until you arrive will you be contented.

That which you seek, should you find there not represented,

set out again, retracing each bend,

find I awaiting and

call me your home.