The sublime and the ordinary

This calls my soul

Words of a lover

She has a soul
another soul longs to call mate
not the first and probably
inferior in late arriving
in this beloved life

It’s just that days without word
are dimmer and
to some degree bereft

Enough lies in a place
for a hobo soul sometimes
to rest when the roaming simply gets
too exhausting

Once only will this be given
the soul knows and accepts
how tides move through the life
of a late lover

Postcards then
and home a place to visit
between horizons

There was a lesson learned

Speaking in a language no one understands
there is no translation
so there can never be told
what is said in a certain place
a time that has no time

No names can be remembered
unmet they are as well unknown
tonight I will write before I sleep
of the visible
if it’s anyone’s business

Shall I repeat
no it has been stated
there is no fear to touch
greater than the loss of
a certain possible trust

The rain falls onto late afternoon
and the bus that comes is
the bus that’s meant for me
to ride
even if it can’t take me all the way
to where I’m going

Going nowhere fast

The lake in docile weather
progress placid by half-idle oars
no rush to reach the farther shore
leaves of trees surrounding make no rustle
no wind to stir fantasies
or bear the scent of something more

Light slips away
leaving the world to dusk’s dominion
slow sounds the instruction
heard as night takes its throne
dream as you will
child of crosshatched fate
and do no harm
do no more harm
if it takes all your days
heal what has gone before
so says the angel bearer of the dark hours

Watch birds
no pigeons dare approach the mastadon
in which I spend these days
amid the midtown cacophony I recall
lakes long gone and trails as yet unseen
and breezes that whisper sometimes
through slowly silent days