Poetry
A tree is not lone, among stolid friends he thrives - acorns fall and roll. I received the card, no man meaningless when friends - torch wood logs in fire. Each flower and rose, each scent upon puckered lips - dissipate when done. There is still the pond, the people change, come and
Poetry
Rob the garland, strip the thyme, a patch of words laid out in rhyme, lute and pipe, and dancers swing, heartbeats thump, a reckoning. Branches stretch, on winds leaves fly, the harvester, his blade held high; with every stroke, each boy or king, is gathered in, left glistening. As the
Poetry
Oh Autumn, Autumn — how you shake and toss, like Homer’s breath against the rocks. You leave us dashed to windy days, to buckle senseless ’neath driving reins. Time scowls at us, but still, we bear some golden flowers, even if only for an hour.
Poetry
You were my home; I love you still, each block I walked, each park a thrill. A day to drift through Faneuil Hall, then Copley Square, where books line walls. A bike ride on the Esplanade, watch rowers glide, quartets applaud. You were my home, back then, and now— no
Poetry
It’s never easy / even when the road’s wide open / even when you tell yourself / you’re done. Hanover holds on / not loud / just a weight behind your ribs. The classrooms are still / chalk ghosts on slate / late sun curling on desks like memory. Dice clattered once / in a
Poetry
Come O twilight, on brightest heights, let northern stars, spread unbound, stretch, unlock us from the lee, so we will roam the grounds carefree. Like spirits cloaked we cross the Green, search classrooms, idle brevity, above, a moon, casts low its light, we reach the dock on foot at night.
Poetry
I’m looking at the tracks, and I’m wondering, where the black crows fly, why we toil here, underneath. We work fields by fences cut, freshly mown, gently falling, and rising once again, in the distant early morning. Echoes of their cawing rattle just above. Like us, they pick
Poetry
Ask not of love, nor of the shadow, nor why one leaf still hangs above, while wispy voices time can’t freeze go dancing off among the trees— and shout into the cold: Hold on! as if the night cared who was gone. My infant’s tender hand in mine,
Poetry
Death is, and death was, sometimes a young face with eyes like a dove, escort to a lone place, a hand in a glove, sometimes an ocean no warm touch or love — A name to remember, a friendship to bear, a heart to rip open, then slowly repair, sometimes a
Poetry
Frühmorgens tanzt der Tod, er schwebt, halslaut schneidet, wenn er lacht, zu ihm strömen tausend Tausende, umhüllt von Trauerzug und Tracht. Frühmorgens vor der Dämmerung, die Kälte mit Fesseln grinst, wie Dezembertag im Hochgebirg, wo Eis und Nebelmeer den Wald umringt. Frühmorgens stehen Raum und Zeit, ein Augenblick hellwach — Hoffnung
Poetry
Dunkel ist die Nacht, Schwarz bekleidet voller Pracht, von weitem funkeln Sterne leise, wie wir im Wald auf einsam‘ Schneise. Dünner Hauch im Dasein glimmert, Hand und Herz in der Flut verschwimmert, ein Schrei, ein letzter Ruf ergeht, weil Ton und Träume zu Staub verwehn. Worte bleiben stolz und prägend,
Poetry
I see mountains, valleys, trees surrounding us through centuries— centuries that come and go, some fast, some slow, but leave us marked, thoughts caught in tow— as September speeds towards harvest vagaries, opulent colours dress nature’s draperies. We will sing and dance as daylight settles low, remember youth of