Poems

Autumn

Today the leaves have tinted brown,
The warbling robin's sound
Portends the forest's frosty due
That is the cost of life.
Those whispy laughs, and crying strife,
The summer days, the autumn nights
So dark, when all could listen for,
The rumblings of some beast with icy roar.
But through those trees of lover's hue,
Went whispers of that savage heart,
Who rather coaxed a mournful sight,
Bones all chattered by the drifting sky.
But now these scenes must bid Adeiu,
The foolish jests shall perish too,
That summer boys do smirk and play.
The ice will creep, the wise shall seek,
And most shall only stand and wait:
Those seeds that dream of warmth, and greener date.

Moonlight Piano

I hear a piano, wild-eyed in the insanity of the Moon,
It's soft and I can barely hear it, perhaps an angel is up past her bedtime,
Playing a secret little song, a cheating song beautful enough to escape justice.
Maybe every now and then she feigns an accident,
Pushing hard on the key,
Pushing the envelope,
And something changes about the way a tree sways in the wind,
Or the way the sunbeams bounce and scatter,
Or how some animal simply looks at me,
Like they see me,
All of me.

Rima 140, Petrach. Translated from the Italian

The love which enraptures me in song,
Keeps my homely heart as his redoubt,
And when holy bells ring loud and strong,
Stands bravely dressing for the bout.
Yet she who kindles love and tries it well,
Wills not unbridled hope or earnest dreams,
But temperance by the distance of the bell,
For this she shades her lovely beams.
Terror is born from Fortune's corpse,
Love flees to the heart to weep and bide.
What can I say to such remorse
But to swear to never leave his side.
Vowing never again himself to give,
By my faith unto death, he shall yet live

Orientation

Extoll the fruitful heart of orphaned man!
Who forms a new world, fashions in his hand
Cacophany: all silence shall be filled,
And sweet diversion all their senses thrill.
Let 'what to do' be now a moldy phrase,
Our Bacchus glows with neon lighted gaze!
These eating cares and tired meet forgot,
So pure delight may now alone be sought.
Yet in that dream a partial moon yet calls
Her sons to pensive shadowed saffron hue.
Lonesome treks, the scorn of all things small,
True fame and all the rest they ought to do.
Yet too shall come, when hairs are old and grey,
To set this down, and carry on their way.