Ghost o’ the Blues.

Whip-poor-will guilt -bucket is a tempting dark pit

Filled with born-too-soon moon blues;

My po’ blister’d goin’-nowhere-fast feet don’t fit

My muddy-water, busted shoes.

A fractional tip of another-too-far mile

Weight of the world, tear-blade shoulder

Just ain’t possible fo’ single man-chile

To feel more deserted or get any colder.

My Cold-Silver Princess

This question-prompt night, I feel the

Travel-far wind of her passing –

My cold-silver princess moon –

As it gently settles its precious

White-ice powder

On my aching soul and

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Be Sure

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Be certain-sure that the full

Treasure-moon also rises; that

elven-blued stars wing across autumn skies

In the rich fairy lands; the realms we

May be lucky enough to glimpse

Only behind our eyelids;

Beyond our fragile, tip-toe dreams.

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Darker Than of Late

Equinox-near morning

Is darker than those of late.

The tack-carry walk passes

In glorious, spiritual-dawn silence.

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This

Is one of those rare
Hawk-holds-breath moments:
When the sky sits still
On the lies and ribs
Of the grey horizons;
Before wind stirs,
Before moon rises …
When, invisible and sublime
A minstrel bird in ancient tree
Gives the peace-to-all prayers
That day’s end deserves;
That invite us to take as much
As we need for hurting selves –
And a little bit extra
To spread around.

25/7/2013