Bewinged Night

I walked through a bewinged night,

Darkness thawing my homesickness.

I bowed to the frozen ground,

Collecting icicled twigs to fence in

My pumping Light.

The Resting Tide

The resting tide that I long for

Hides still, like a riddle,

In the innermost eye of the grieving sky.

Twirling, Spinning, Shivering

Like a wayward clock

Against an eternal night.

Lullaby for the weary

In the glow of evening stars
Soul-winds lace the growing tides
And shades the dimming sky,
And as twilight ripens
We forget the worries of the past.
And hearts that burn and ache with pain
From memories that robs and steal
The peace from blessed sleep
Will set aside the toiling world
And quest anew for a love-blest day
And let hope again infuse the heart
With the sun’s boon of wonder.

Autumn nights and quiet woods

Autumn nights and quiet woods,
Mirroring lakes without ripples,
No screams of pain or skid marks
From a life in full retreat.
Only heartbeats, echoing contentedly
Like a retired summer breeze
Inspiring flight in nature’s red wings.

Within the night there is light

Within the night there is light,
A nail made of silver.
It goes through my palms,
Fastening me to the black sky,
Leaving me exposed,
Like an Angel-shaped flicker
Of Northern Lights.

Your Wings

Nailed to the sky with silver bolts,
Stilled of flickering but burning bright
In the quiet of winter nights,
Promising a dance partner
Made of stars.

In the night

In the night, everything seems
To widen out, to allure the light.
The borders of sky blurring intently,
Erasing the path on to which
My longing walks
On sore feet through farmlands of stars.
Alone like a pilgrim walking towards
The unknown.

This is the heart of melancholy

A tender seasonal gust of leaves
Scoops my dreams up
And rush them through the ajar window.
A fine-toothed comb
Brushes through my knotted thoughts.
It is as though the morning is left
Sitting, half asleep, out there
On one of the distant isles with nothing
But a lighthouse to keep it
From leaning back into the darkness
Of the pre-autumnal night.
This is the heart of melancholy;
A wistful longing, a vague memory of safe harbor,
Scraped away by the rawness of beautiful sunny days.
A dream with one leg rooted in summer pasture
And one leg winged by the mystery of night.

Seeping through the shadowland

The soft sigh of the willows
Seep through the shadowland
Where weeping ferrymen
Steer their canoes through morning dew.
Wild ducks, with sea salted wings,
Migrate through dawn
Shedding golden leaves like syrup fingers
Attaching their palms to the ground.
Cuts in the night sky deepen and
Bleed honey onto the horizon
Herding nightbirds and dreaming children
Back home.

The summer night is gentle

The summer night is gentle
Allowing the soft sounds of the sleeping forest
To creep into a bedroom window kept ajar.
The wind combing through leaves
With soft bristled breaths, and in between
Silence.
The night becomes thoughtful and strange,
Perhaps picking strands of coppery autumn
From the lush dense bristles.