A glimmer of light on a stone,
The uprush of wind under eagle’s wings,
And pure power pounding off a cliff
Takes many forms.
Heart breaking in its perfection,
-or mask?
Yet it makes us whole.
-it is the whole.
Untouchable – so distant –
And unbelievably close.
Even in its intrinsic flaws.
Beyond this poem.
Beyond words.
It is that time of day,
Suspended between afternoon and evening
Perched high on a golden pinnacle.
Light floats, pours,
Down in a gentle rain
From clear blue sky.
Brings with it
Warmth, vision, life,
This is a strange time,
A time of passion and fire
And calm reflection.
Like an image in a mirror, or reflected in a pond,
It is fragile, profound,
Untouchable and yet breakable,
Eternal, and neverending
Even as it fades,
Oh so smoothly,
Into night.
Two worlds,
One pure, wild, and free
The other far more “Civilized”.
Code-bound rules stark against
Childlike simplicity with one law only:
-live or die.
To which do I belong?
Both call me
Both have some claim to my affections.
A balancing act
And I am swinging wildly out of control.
I know what is right
And yet, I cannot do it.
Moderation, it seems, takes more control than I could know.
I like this world – I am, after all,
Clothed, sipping tea while I write with a manufactured pen
On manufactured paper.
But oh, how that one calls!
The sleek black night, cool summer breeze, and clean fresh air await.
I am as a victim, torn between two sirens,
Each singing lovely songs.
But it is not so bad.
I, at least, have a choice.
I’m trying to relax.
But somehow,
Indoor silence just isn’t quite the same
And indoor air is old and stressed and stale
And somehow melancholy.
But why? Life is good;
I have so much.
Have done so much.
But here it is not enough
Never enough.
Only out there, in that world of
Trees and grass and cloud-strewn sky
Can I be free.
There, I am always enough
Just as I am.
And it is that silence which I long for,
Not this still, dead air
To furnace stress-paced life.
I need the other air
The clean air,
That loves me and all that I am
Or am not.
Yes, I need that air.
Then, I can
The Tempest Calls
Storm is coming
Power crackles in warm,
Thick air
As wind rushes through,
Capers and rolls.
No need to rush.
The storm,
Confident in its power,
Can take its time.
Such power!
Enough to overwhelm mere mortals,
I am exuberant nonetheless.
Danger, perhaps,
But the excitement!
This is life, is it not?
Voice beckons from open door.
I must go in.
But please,
One more moment?
Just one more?

Green mist adorns tree branches
As red rain falls to earth below.
Lo! The world alive!
The Earth we once thought dead
Is dead no more.

A storm approaches,
Soft and swift
On wind-blown wings,
Wafting on cold air.
I can feel it,
The violent symphony
Of noise and motion and light.
Thrilling – exhilarating
In the rush of the wind
And the pound of the rain,
I can let the world go,
And for once,
Feel sane

Rain falls.
Dark skies spit tiny droplets
From their foreboding depths.
And yet,
Although gloomy,
The morning is

It is coming?
Tiny buds poke through on trees,
Falling snow gives way to liquid rain.
The time is here,
When things begin to grow-
Burst into life!
But it is cold,
And seeds are dormant still.

Pressure builds
Air stirs
Wind breaks forth
In a violent cataclysm
Of motion and sound.
The storm has begun