You are much fingerprinted
but the crimes are mine,
You knew the rules, kept them safe
within your faded covers.
The splotches on your page
were made by me,
of those little mishaps
that plagued my vague attempts
The five course dinner
reduced to three
the soufflé snuffled,
hid its face
gracelessly in its center,
We cried together. Another time,
another day of hurry,
I watched the blender’s fury
soak your face with milkshake.
I knew I should have
used the lid provided,
Still, you have abided my indiscretions
with only an occasional hard look,
What would I do without you,
O war torn cookbook?
Grass and trees
have thinned to wispy thoughts
of Spring. How red the rose
of memory, how sweet the song
that’s not quite sung,
but waits like stars
on quiet nights
to drench the corners
of your room with light,
and fill your heart
How sweet the sound of whispered sighs
that lie within the midnight wind…
that tease and taunt and tantalize;
turn every moment into Zen.
Even the ocean seems to know
how sweet the sound of whispered sighs,
As waters ebb and waters flow
in tones that soothe and tranquilize.
The willows make their own replies
as graceful limbs embrace the breeze,
How sweet the sound of whispered sighs,
a truth known even to the trees.
The years have passed so quickly, yet
I’ve come at last to realize
that memory holds no regret,
How sweet the sound of whispered sighs.
“Who dare say that Sun is false?”
Virgil (in his account of Caesar’s death)
Such days as this will live in infamy;
no praise nor blame will make it go away.
A tension built beyond one man’s control;
good intentions paved the way to Hell.
Too filled with self
to note the sapling in the wind;
how its spine bent then straightened.
that which does not bend
Antony, Caesar was your friend;
with fingers crossed behind your back
you said Brutus was an honorable one.
Call it history or fallacy,
we keep proving this is true:
the evils that men do exceed the grave.
On March 15, 44BC, Julius Caesar was assassinated by ‘The Liberators’,
a group led by Brutus and his brother-in-law, Cassius Longinus. Instead
of bringing the freedoms they had hoped for, the assassination led to
years of civil war and the fall of the Republic.
In a meadow
rich with Spring’s first grass unclipped,
she pulls the cape around her closer
as March with fingers long and thin
would claim it.
Golden hair and dress aswirl;
a sprite caught in the breath
of a storm approaching.
A tinge of blush and sweet smile’s grace,
her face a study of innocence.
She plucks a daffodil
tucks it behind her ear, a child
of the moor’s wild freedom
racing the storm clouds
this mossy forest floor,
the decay, the spoor;
the symmetry an artistry
that’s cushion for the sole.
or lowly sparrow, no golden bird
on golden bough. This song
is real – a trill
that’s born of being.
No drunken merriment
pollutes the air. No shining
armor here. All highs
are measured by the trees.
The breeze a voice
that comforts weary travelers,
The spirits here are friendly,
complex without complexity.
No artifice in this eternity.