Sunday, July 22, 2012

Narcissus 1

Your words

The tone of your voice
which you do not hear
while others do
makes me want to hide,
to duck my head and run.

I wonder what it is
inside of you
that wants to hurt
as much as heal
in this world
we share.

You have no patience
for me or my life.
I am just a shadow
passing by,
a flicker in your mind
and then gone.

You are the sun
I ~ the moon.
I am not to outshine you,
I am only to reflect your glory.
I am to orbit you,
Bowing to your gravity,
I cannot affect more than the tides,
I have no impact upon the light
except to shine it back to you.

Sunday, July 15, 2012


It is not the grand gesture
nor the grinning illusion of truth;

Rather it is the small lies,
which start as seeds of mistrust
growing tendrils of suspicion
that begin the cracking of the foundation.

It is the sly glance at her.
The eyes flicking down
and to the left
when her name is mentioned.

It is the distance in your touch
the murmur in your sleep
of another’s name,
an unfamiliar endearment
that is not and never was mine.

Perhaps you have not yet
touched her except in your mind.
But those fantasy kisses
are stolen from my lips.

Those imagined touches
burn like fire
scorch like flame
exciting and scarring
hearts all the same.

She is the one
who slips beneath the sheets
separating life and dreams.
She is the one who
reaches into your heart
and pushes me aside

She is the one
that is no longer me,
no matter why.


Sunday, July 1, 2012


The sun tips above the horizon
greening the grass
drying the dew.

The farmer wanders slowly
into the knee high grass,
bows slightly
and grasps the scythe
as if to dance.

His body sways
and dips
and the tall grasses
fall before his graceful arc.

He winds a path
through the field,
the scent of new mown hay
rising and spiraling into the wind.

The sun creeps upward,
as his shadow lengthens then ebbs
to a small circle beneath his boots.
Pausing to rest,
he turns and sees the rows of grass
like waves following his wake.

Around him a sea of green
sweet smelling and sun fresh
he turns back and again grasps
the scythe,

and once more begins
the ancient dance of man,
metal, grass and sun.

The whispering sigh
as the grass falls
soothes his soul
and plays a quiet tune
vibrating with the hum of bees
and the pulse of his heart.

Long is the day,
hard is the labor,
but deep is the love of the land
and the satisfaction of one man.