the Cure/Pictures of You

I have been looking so long at these pictures of you…that I almost believe that they are real. I have been living so long with my pictures of you…that I almost believe that the pictures are all I can feel. Remembering you standing quiet in the rain as I ran to your heart to be near. And, we kissed as the sky fell in…holding you close. How I always held close in your fear.

Remembering you running soft through the night. You were bigger and brighter and wider than snow and, screamed at the make believe. screamed at the sky. And, you finally found all your courage to let it all go.
Remembering you falling into my arms. Crying for the death of your heart. You were stone white! So delicate…lost in the cold. You were always so lost in the dark.
Remembering you…how you used to be. Slow drowned…you were angels. So much more than everything.

Hold for the last time then slip away. Open my eyes. But I never see anything.

If only I had thought of the right words. I could have held on to your heart. If only I had thought of the right words…I would not be breaking apart…all my pictures of you.

There was nothing in the world
That I ever wanted more
Than to feel you deep in my heart
There was nothing in the world
That I ever wanted more
Than to never feel the breaking apart
All my pictures of you

These Days

Well, I’ve been out walking…I don’t do that much talking these days.  These days…I seem to think a lot about the things I forgot to do for you…and, all the times I had the chance to.

And, I had a lover!  It is so hard to risk another…these days.  Now if I seem to be afraid to live the life I have made…in song.  Well, it’s just that I’ve been losing so long.

I’ll keep on moving.  Things are bound to be improving…these days.  These days I sit on corner stones and count the time in quarter tones to ten, my friend.

‘Don’t confront me with my failures…I had not forgotten them.’


We Must Get Home

We must get home! How could we stray like this?
So far from home, we know not where it is,
cropped-bridge-2.jpgonly in some fair, apple-blossomy place
of children’s faces…and the mother’s face.
We dimly dream it, till the vision clears
even in the eyes of fancy, glad with tears.

We must get home…for we have been away.
So long, it seems forever and a day!
And, O so very homesick we have grown,
the laughter of the world is like a moan.
In our tired hearing, and its song as vain…
We must get home!  We must get home again!

We must get home! With heart and soul we yearn.
cropped-woman-and-man-3.jpgTo find the long-lost pathway, and return!…
The child’s shout lifted from the questing band.
Of old folk, faring weary, hand in hand,
but faces brightening, as if clouds at last
were showering sunshine on us as we passed.

We must get home: It hurts so staying here.
Where fond hearts must be wept out tear by tear.
And, where to wear wet lashes means, at best…
When most our lack, the least our hope of rest…
When most our need of joy, the more our pain…
We must get home…We must get home again!

We must get home…home to the simple things…
cropped-imageedit_10_7365917179.jpgThe morning-glories twirling up the strings
And, bugling color, as they blared in blue…
And, white o’er garden-gates we scampered through…
the long grape-arbor, with its under-shade
blue as the green and purple overlaid.

We must get home.  All is so quiet there:
The touch of loving hands on brow and hair…
Dim rooms, wherein the sunshine is made mild…
The lost love of the mother and the child.
Restored in restful lullabies of rain,
We must get home…We must get home again!

The rows of sweetcorn and the China beans
Beyond the lettuce-beds where, towering, leans.
imageedit_21_7011298630The giant sunflower in barbaric pride
guarding the barn-door and the lane outside.
The honeysuckles, midst the hollyhocks,
that clamber almost to the martin-box.

We must get home, where, as we nod and drowse.
Time humors us and tiptoes through the house.
and, loves us best when sleeping baby-wise.
With dreams…not tear-drops…brimming our clenched eyes,
pure dreams that know nor taint nor earthly stain.
We must get home…We must get home again!

We must get home! The willow-whistle’s call,
trills crisp and liquid as the waterfall…
imageedit_206_7223608855mocking the trillers in the cherry-trees
and, making discord of such rhymes as these.
That know nor lilt nor cadence but the birds.
First warbled…then all poets afterwards.

We must get home and, un-remembering there…
all gain of all ambition other-where…
Rest from the feverish victory, and the crown…
of conquest whose waste glory weighs us down.
Fame’s fairest gifts we toss back with disdain…
We must get home…We must get home again!

We must get home again…we must…we must!
(Our rainy faces pelted in the dust)
Creep back from the vain quest through endless strife…
to find not anywhere in all of life.
A happier happiness than blest us then …
We must get home…We must get home again!

imageedit_80_4389937315We must get home! 

We must get home!

James Whitcomb Riley





When any of our faculties retains
a strong impression of delight or pain,
the soul will wholly concentrate on that,
neglecting any other power it has;
and thus, when something seen
or heard secures the soul in stringent grip,
time moves and yet we do not notice it.

Beauty awakens the soul to act. - Dante
Beauty awakens the soul to act. – Dante

  • Dante

Letting go…so bittersweet, but our drive for something more…will see us through!

With or Without…my love

With or Without Love

Shamelessly happy are the yearnings for that have…

for they are feverishly aware of having not.

alone to the lonely…

relishing in the unmasking few of…I have you and you only!

Prose we have

Or, else, some have forgot.

A mixed bag of nuts…all favorites

these trinkets prop the screen door open.

Varied fruitless attempts at vanity…

keep the back door shut.

with or loveThus, to give love one more chance.

Twice shy, bowing out of the dance.

God and fools only…

know which road to choose.

What is a chance…if you stand to lose.

The dust upon an open haze.

Crazy beautiful.

With or loveOr, just games we play.

Excuse the bad manner…sweetheart

one is a commoner’s wording…the other…

deaths do us part.

Fool that I am...You took my heart, Then played the part of little coquette.
Fool that I am…You took my heart,
Then played the part of little coquette.