To a Friend

July 27, 2016


Golden disk of sun,

Radiant, copper fire, lost in milky clouds.

Red like change but at rest,

A bronze figurine,

sun-drenched sphinx,

floating peaceful

above every torrid twist and turn of time.

I love you, my sunlight,

my thing of beauty unmarred.



‘SLEEPING CAT’ – Pen & Ink and Watercolour by Richard Marsh, source:


May 2, 2016



Unum, duo, tria, I count the elements on a metronome,

their numbered symbols make a mark’d meter,

A frantic danse macabre over a world of processes.

O, that sublimation would carry me away,

the lighter above the heavy,

a team of angels tromping above the earth,

the fiery seraphim, who announce, holy, holy, holy.

O that I be transmuted,

blackest dross to fairest gold,

in the blue hours before dawn.

O that I climb to heaven,

Aboard my dreams, rocked by chopped ocean,

threatened by deepest seas

and glaring leviathan, wispy-tongued.

May I close ears to the siren

who calls strident, rimed-poetry,

fantastic alchemy, grave fables.

Abroad the silver-tipped wings of albatross,

fluttering pinions of fairies,

folded pelage of nymphs,

May I ascend, ascend the gracious realm,

my elysian field, my Eden… paradise,

for which I long in sighs and lament,

psalm, dirge and hymn.

Oh angels, bring me, aloft,

along the pearled steps,

Where cares fall amidst the lilies,

where worry fades within the sun

which knows no setting, no dusk,

no bugle-call, no sleep at the earth’s end.




May 2, 2016



On winged feet, aflurry,

summer comes.

Elements of clarion water, sultry breeze and flaring sun see play,

a hop-scotch amidst the dotted meadow.

Time for fire-flies to waltz in golden glint,

for lilies to raise triumphant heads.

Hear ye, starling and black-bird,

bellows sweet aria.

Hear, owl and night jar,

chant hallowed Compline.

See fire glint in the falcon’s eye,

bounce on the back of a wildcat

Behold a cadre of bats aflutter,

insects ahum, like manifold lyres

and will-o-whisps a saunter.

In summer’s fire,

thunder cries out,

rain plays a staccato fugue,

the very air crackles with worn time.

Watch, feel, the trees alimber,

their wild dance, exultant shower of seed.

Breathe the night-blooming jasmine,

as it utters melismatic,

summer’s timeless tune.


April 4, 2016


Once upon a time, a long, long time,

Winter loosed its callid grip.

Amidst the rising waters, whispered and stirred,

from their berth, flew a dark cloud.

It grew eyes, dragon feet,

and mind sharp as midnight hour.

It blossomed blacken plume,

a velt, knighten flower,

blackest rose of winter.

Eyes like the sun, tongue like the moon,

tail splayed in stars, wings, voiceless as time,

cries sonorous, “aawk, aawk, awake!”

wakes the dawn.

Grey wolf, bronzed man,

Yes, man of smoke and flame, follows.

The dark, svelt angel,

who heralds the vast, spirit worlds,

above the earth yet red in tooth and claw,

he bays, death’s hound, at the open wide gate

of the savage moon.

Friend, foe and mocking one,

his bill severs the night, flesh from bone and blood.

Eyes like jack-o-lanterns burning,

speak riddles, sing of truth and lies.

Is he life or death?

A celestial ferryman of souls,

or hungry ghost, swallowing lands,

fallen-one, given wings to mount the night

a disgraced Lancelot, guarding the wilds,

Memory of Odin, ever alight?

Who is he, of matter and spirit,

our hopes, dreams, kindness, cruelties, questionings and fright?



The Changeling

April 4, 2016


Where moor dust and night shimmer collect,

on cloven grass below,

heaven and earth, and eldritch things,

begets a child.

But a wraith, a wisp, fairy-sprite,

cries the changeling.

Her dreams are unicorns, her sighs, crystal wings,

and her longings all wrapped up in the moon.

Do fox and sheep wait by her cradle,

quaking aspen, oak and elder tree?

Do not starry Orion and twinkling Ceres

lie at her whiten folds?

Come morning, the sow will roan

the cock chime and heifer low, earth telling of earthly things.

Yet fay-reeds will fan, the toadstools like folded lyres, sing,

the choir of crickets, damselfly and bog-rose

raise once more, its lonely antiphon.

Only things of heaven do things earthly dream,

of trollish feet, elven lips and angel wings,

doth cries the little changeling.




Summer Fair

April 4, 2016



On July 1st, I wore my first festival dress.

In snowy lace folded between shards of rose and ice,

like spring breaking free from winter.

My gloves, newly-riven snow or perhaps dove’s wings,

gilded with silver morning

dewy in youth and recklessness,

soon to be torn or ruined.

My shoes, black hooves, like a kid jumping on rocks

a green stream underneath.

My cloak, a cold phoenix, burning with ice,

aflame with the chill of expectant love.

Inlaid, gold lining, a tracery of heaven,

flitting like pollen or moth’s feet,

the handiwork of too much time.

I am a lily, new with moss,

queening her silver, gold and opal,

aflame and ashen, ancient and new

O whom do we owe,

a theme timeless as beauty itself.



A Song alone

February 15, 2016



I once sang a song alone,

the strings of my throat avibe,

the plectrum of my heart in place.

No one listened, no one heard,

yet the very walls inclined.

I once chanted a psalm unwritten,

the zither of my spirit wrung tight,

The dusty air with sonor

left the antiphon unsaid, unvoiced.

I once composed a dirge,

the chord of my tongue in D-minor,

for no one

and they didn’t weep.

I once rejoined a wedding hymn,

the organ of my lungs billowed,

like the descant of royal flute

played by none

yet answered by spring’s bloom.

I once tuned the tympanym of my lips

to twirl,

dancing like heavenly spheres

lost in the blink of an angel’s eye.

Ein Klein Nachtmusik

February 15, 2016




At last, falls the curtain,

still, dread velvet weaves the quiet,

a flurry of feathers, ancient tracks,

Aqua regia and wheaten witches’ moons.

How can I connect

the sacred and profane, the lofty and lowly,

the many strands of soundless symphony?

Do the trees answer life and death,

motherhood and loss?

Do lunar phases mark love’s mood

both tragic and elated?

Can the eloquent calligraphy of frost

record seasons, longings and sighs?

Is she Diana who births the night,

or Nyx spreading her inky cloak?

Is it the she-wolf, wraith or sprite

who strikes the danse macabre entwined?

Is this the lesser time of God,

or the penance to repair what’s lost?

Of snow and ashes, would I be remiss,

of that noiseless time when destroying angels pass.

In the lightless underworld,

do owls hymn thee?

When fearsome things tramp afoot,

does the unknown, unseen, unremembered cry?

There is appointed the time to awake

and to die.

After every day surely comes night

on rodent feet

singing the unsung requiem

taps on a graveyard bugle,

Nunc dimittis in velvet black

because the white of dawn may wake them.


April 26, 2015

Meek, gentle, pure,
your beauty makes the heart ache.
Holy warmth radiates from your figure, fair and white.
I wish to embrace.
Longing fills the deepest void,
to make all that is yours, my own.
and all that is my own, yours.
The strong one who kneels down,
wise one who listens,
waits patiently.
Son, husband, father, brother,
the new man descending into his garden,
fervent, full and round as the sun.
Everything worth fighting for, worth protecting,
worth loving.
Through the eyes of the soul, I see

my Christ.


Morning Prayer

February 25, 2015

Into the forest glistening, damp,
I traversed.
Rustling grass, my nave,
Arched canopy above, my vault,
white moths twinkling, my candles.
Oh blue warbler, my cantor in his forked loft!
Twigs and stones, my resting place
among things green, ancient, and alive.
Round and round, squirrels leap
in liturgy of chase and play
The spotted owl calls out an antiphon.
My nostrils inhale musky woods,
reminding me of something forgotten.
Here, time lies still,
hushed, savage and sacred.
Birds and beasts sing,
sing the morning-prayer with me!