When sinking into a bleak sheol
and seeking a torch to stay night’s wrath,
electric light is the prudent pick;
but given a choice
Refuse the switch, and ignite a wick
for though bulbs are best to show your path,
a flickering flame will warm your soul.
The flames have dwindled down to logy coal.
Ay, my roaring stove has been exhausted.
It kindled warmth, with passion sang its soul;
then in frigid darkness – somehow lost it.
Hours ago, the hottest I remember,
I felt it toast my face and proof my core.
Now it crumbles cold to crusted ember,
and long is night to go on empty store.
I try to stoke it, feed the famished fire,
but every piece I pile only smothers.
The birch, the oak, and all that I desire
overwhelms the remnants like the others.
It seems the only hope to stave its death
is twig the grounds that glow and give them breath.
I hiked deep into woods | while breaking virgin snow.
I saw some tracks pass through | they appeared to be fresh.
The hooves of a large stag| wandered into the brush
So I veered from my path | curious where they’d go.
They meandered around oaks | and no hurry was had,
but then I saw the tracks | suddenly had more space.
I guessed the deer had heard | my presence in his place
and so by leaps and bounds | the buck jumped from his pad.
Hoping to catch a glimpse, | quietly I pressed on.
I would peer through the trees | as I reached a hill’s crest,
but all I’d see was tracks; | he’d left me in his dust
for every time I’d look | he was already gone.
I knew not where I was, | though lost and on a roam;
I seemed to know this place. | I had seen it before.
Then looking up the hill, | I saw the roof next door.
Though I never found the deer,| I’m glad he brought me home.
Think upon a maple in November:
Just standing dormant, drab in shades of gray.
It had color, scarcely I remember;
When first its spectrum faded, I can’t say.
Recalling vernal days when blooming bells
rang hope for verdant clouds to fill the wood.
Then later raised to glow when autumn fell,
the acer blazed in glory where it stood.
‘Til the wind and rain stripped off its vigor;
its impetus now lifeless on the ground.
Fallen, leaves it barely stand in rigor,
and yet suppose there might be promise found.
For in dregs of winter it will offer
sweet returns that spring from hidden coffer.
I know the secret you have concealed
there, when the daylight is shining bright.
You seem small, subtle, without a force;
But comes the darkness
and your luminescent codes of Morse
will dance to entrance the ebon night
as your significance is revealed.
Rose-colored plate glass
shatters in the dimming light
fractured by branches
Flakes of rusted iron
shiver in the wind.
All others long since
shed their scales;
But these are last
ones to give in.
As walking on pillows-
on damp pillows-
on damp, carpeted pillows
of emerald and gold leaf,
and red velvet cake;
Each step I take unboldly.
I wince and apologize
for the compression,
impressions that materialize
with every step.
With each step my foot tries
to step gently,
but the lightest step feigned
isn’t feather enough;
And it’s a tough terrain,
like lumbering through those
piles of drifted snow,
searching for new,
simpler ways to go.
Exhausted, slow, subdued,
and not half-way across it,
I stop and nestle down
upon an ottoman-unorthodox.
My tired body sinks.
I think a paradox:
This waterbed, so tiring to traverse,
but so relaxing to lounge.
I beg pardon to the pillow deflating;
weighted by my rest.
In duress I straighten
and rise from the sponge, continuing on
toward the far sedgy edge
where the green walls rise and billow
Stumbling late through pillows
of emerald and gold leaf, and
moist red velvet cake;
I wince with every tired step,
for dents that I make.
the frozen throne
and find some peace
that’s all your own!
into the ravenous mouth
of this frosted Sarlacc
who’s hungry to devour
all of your frozen assets.
Sit, if you dare,
on this Pit of despair,
but you may find
that when you stand
a piece of your derriere
is left behind.
Relax, if you can,
on this quiet hut,
but don’t retard
to think about
the crystal shards
that long to cut
their teeth into
your tender butt.
on ice and snow!
Forget the seats
you’d rather go!
Take the crate
that’s sure to freeze
your hind with ease.
As last resort,
I’m sure that you’d
this port, this Fort
O this lassitude!
This wearisome ennui!
How much longer will this languor linger?
Will it merely endeth me?