Thursday, July 2, 2009


There is something divinely delicious in a cloud
Its movements which at times seem
to move toward you and away from you,
to explode upward and outward
and to sink downward and inward
all at once.

Called white only by children and lovers
an artist looks in and deciphers the tangled
shadows, pulling forth whites and blues,
greys that tend toward black
and lavender and greens that tend
toward colors as yet unnamed.

And perhaps, they never look so well
as when they pass over a bright red roof
of some barn or building with fields
and trees below,
waving like excited children at a parade.

Then without ever moving
they float by and are gone
and the sky is left empty,
what lovers and children
would call blue, but you and I know
is anything but.



half a league half a league half a league onward. . . a wind which whips the puddles dry. . .my friend you would not tell with such high zest. . . here where the world is silent. . .he took his vorpal sword in hand. . .nothing beside remains. . .the sun was shining on the sea. . . all the kings horses and all the kings men . . . lives of great men all remind us. . .

Once uttered, the words can't be unsaid
Once thought, a thoughts un-unthinkable
The written word can't be unread
A dream, once dreamt is unsinkable

So exposed our lives are filled
With a richness incomparable,
Which in time will always yeild
A damage unrepairable.