Stacey

There upon the staircase

Halloween night a clown

You sat pensive, tasting

Something your excursion got,

Clown costumed red,

Yellow, green and white,

Ruffled collar, quiet face

Blue eyed, golden hair curled

Around your thoughts.

When I at distance watched

And wonder whelmed by you,

Became your certained father

By uncertain struck.

Love lit, glad and sad.

Glad – you are.

Sad – helpless I may be,

When hapless happens,

And I cannot be there always

When it’s me you want.

Or to know what and how,

To be enduringly,

For you

The person I imagine

You trust that I will be.

The Body

Lying still his

body blankly waiting,

all better possibilities removed 

discarded with the clothing.

Nothing left but

barren elemental acts,

with thinking chained to physic bits

of skinscaped geographic facts.

Staging motion by the script

when emotions have now fled

there’s left a mere performance;

not bad acting playing in its stead.

Forgetting when,

over , done, and filled with doubt,

that the charge, not the parts

nrings ecstasy about.

Wanting by itself

is insufficient reason.

being attended by affection

pleasures him to please him.

Reached for by attraction
brings alive his blood
in all the tips where there without
passion cannot flood.

We’re better joined by hearts and minds

which all the rest will follow,

than trying only our skins to join

when under them is hollow.

Toronto Train to Montreal

Railside lines weave music staffs,

flowing cleffed as pictured songs fly past,

a silver trumpet horn of light 

plays off the lake before the night.

Timpanic factories boom now and then,

at either end of small town rondos when,

the houses’ human chorus notes appear,

united by road lines’ cadence clear.

Farm fencing string sounds go round

the earth turned deepness of the cello ground.

Among the autumn’s espressivo  tones,

occasionally comes back alone

the engine horn - long, long: short, long…

the monotone refrain in this sightly song.

Then a lone three storied old stone gable sings,

in sky blued keys through window gone rings,

a heartfelt tune of magic rhythm, 

the thrilling lyrics of our natural anthem.

The lights come up, the station stage appears,

The singing pictures disappear.

The would be audience now disembarks.

Have others heard and seen the trip’s symphonic parts?

Nothing in the Night

We are a waning gibbous

to become nothing in the night

by orbit darkness worn,

until a shadowed smudge

with no further rounds to come.

Smudge to smudge,

Dusk to dusk,

The last reflected sliver of the sun

of lighted nights and darkened days

bright shined times and glowering sights,

reflections launched 

on eternal reverent trails,

photon traces of a tale

told unseen, untouched,

yet still a signature

of everything we have done,

hidden,

but forever present in the dark, 

our ephemeral light.

Oneiros

Once in wheatened fields

he ran

exalted by the wind

limbered stretching,

brushing legs, and arms

soaring over golden ends,

undulating seed top rushes,

toward the blue earth split sky

ahead, behind, aside

the same distant magic line

never reached but out for,

exuberated glad.

  Are you listening?                                                     Sir? The answer?
  I' m not sure...sir.                                                    Anything? I guess                                                   not sir. Someone                                                  else! Who knows
  the answer?   

Desktop leaning sitting

jammed to next, stopped

and waiting

for the teaching sound to end

or to speed up, 

get out and get away

then a sideways glance

to the glass squared outside sky

Once again in wheatened fields,

he Ran.

Telescopic Touching

Saturn’s spectrum snatched by glass,

thrown gently to my eye

with telescopic touching,

mundane attachments gone

in black between-us space.

Your rebounded sunlight thrills,

as a lover’s presence

outshines his pictured sight.

Then suddenly too I vanish,

to know our joining

makes me and all the it’s

into tiny insubstantial bits.

To Sleep by Georgian Bay

The open casements by my bed

speak the sound of the Georgian shore,

when the moonless night,

blinds black my open eyes,

and I can only listen

to the water’s edge,

on the nearby  stones and sand,

saying,

Swoosh to sleep now,

Swoosh to sleep now.

In the whispering shush,

like the small waves,

seeping back from shape,

I softly curl away,

into my own seeping dream.

To float below the surface ripples,

spent by the windswept crashes

of the foamy fist’s thundering pound,

splashing white on the gray gone day,
wet over the sand skin,

I am the blood flood shore.