The River

How swift the river hedges up the plane.

Her reckless coarse affronts the stable earth.

Where, once, the meadow, or the peaceful plain,

where now there goes a soil-wrenching mirth.

I thought there was an ancient spirit once,

who fought Scamander on the plains of war.

Is this the thing that hero so affronts?

Is this why horse and man his fury tore?

But hear the life that rending river brings:

what seeds and flowers suddenly send forth?

What wind in happy heaven lowly sings?

What migrants flock their way here from the North?

So plains become the valleys where we bide,

and all our longing cannot stop its stride.

Where Dwells that Quiet Friend

"But I can't hear you," I said.

The Tree was before my mind. A beautiful, natural tree. There were tall cool grasses in its cool grey shade, and a hollow in the blades where one might sit to ponder in quiet.

"I will have to find that place," I thought.

And so it struck.

That's quite right.

I must do that work.

Then there were the riverside trails I used to walk, in Falls and Springtimes past. 

There!

'There' were places like the Tree.

And then the yard. My yard. The yard I lost and loved. 

"I've had it there," thought I.

Then--

--"That's where I heard you, isn't it?"

But I knew no words from that yard. No visitations came to my mind of heavenly messages on that land.

Just quiet.

Quiet and joy.

"That's you, then?"

"You've been there all the time. I just can't hear."

The Tree

A lonely tree amidst the sea

blows softly in the wind.

Leaves fall free about that tree

and aren't seen again.

Birds fly high in pleasant sky

above that sea-breached tree,

whose feathers cry from flocks so high

so those who search may see.

Once, a fawn in search of dawn

beneath this tree made den--

long 'fore was drawn this sea upon

its pleasant little glen.

And 'ere the knell, a wren befell

and lit before the fawn,

and there did dwell, sang peace, until

the poor one's life had drawn.

Then round the fawn was swathed the dawn

beneath this lonely tree.

And rain set on this paragon

and washed it o'er with sea.

The gentle wren took journey then

into the stormy sky,

O'er moor and fen to wait for when

another would need it nigh.

But still that tree, above that sea,

recalls that fawn and wren.

Sheds leaves for tears throughout the years,

and shan't be seen again.

Shards of Glass

 A great old giant, long ago, a pane of glass did drop

and shards flew all around the world and set on every rock.

Some find a piece and think they hold the very poise of life

but infinite they are, and all are wrought with beauty rife.

No man can mold the shards in one, no man can have them all,

but every man that searches well will find some, large and small.

And should that man be wrought upon to write about their piece

the world might be a better world, our joy at once increase.

The Rising Sun

I looked down when the Sun had fled,

a weight of worry on my head,

the heat of day so quickly gone

and now my heart all woebegone.

When Sun's out bright and in the light,

I feel no fear nor faint nor fright, 

but when He's dark and cold, I tire,

and build me up a feeble fire.

It never gets so warm or bright,

my fire, compared to heaven's light. 

"But what am I to do," I say,

"when heaven's warmth is gone away?"

"Look forward," says a stable voice,

"make hope thy fire, and faith thy choice.

Choose love for Mine, and see: Sun-rays

they rise already off aways."

"Thine eyes have seen so oft before

the Sun come round and break the shore.

Canst thou not wait a moment hence

for warmth to break through night's events?"

"Make not a mortal fire, child,

be not by ghosts and fears beguiled.

Trust that soon the Sun will rise,

to warm thy heart and mend thine eyes."

The joys of fear

I can think of nothing so good as to live forever in the company of one who does something exquisitely unique and plainly familiar with their food.

My sister eats her burritos in such a way (always bean burritos with no onions or red sauce) where always the beans seem forward and dry, always about to spill out, always just too dry to break tension. She will eat only part of one, or one and part of another, and leave the burrito on the plate opposite a small puddle of mild sauce. This satisfies her, and the residue in that state on the plate will stay, forever that way if she did not eventually discard it.

I have not known anything so familiar as that plate, with a partial burrito almost spilling with refried beans, beside a puddle of mild sauce. To see that plate often, regularly, reliably, is the most palatable of joys. It is the warmth of a home long lost, a portal to days much missed. Days when we three, vagabond siblings of a father we feared and a mother we protected without provocation, ventured in the bounds of home and city, learning what it meant to be alive.

End, o end

Now you're used up well and good,

spent your time just like you should.

Now a new vocation, man:

be as dead as you well can!

For my buriers

When I die, let me die with my hands buried deep in my pockets.

Let me shrug off Fay Death with the nonchalance of youth,

with the pride of working men,

looking coldly at That Cold One's cold eye-sockets.

Let me die, when I die, with my hands buried deep in my pockets.

Of a day long remembered and much fraught

You,

boy on the bench opposite mine,

what book is it that you read?

The glare of the Sun is blinding, yes?

I know, for I, too, read.

But if you do not recall the book, take heart,

I do not remember mine.

It now occurs to me that your headache must be worse than mine is,

for I wore no glasses in those days,

but you do.

I remember thinking ill of you, somehow.

I had seen you in halls and ways,

and was annoyed.

Time has taught me that I was really annoyed at the mirror you were of myself.

The mirror you are, even now.

You wait for a parent to arrive in a car,

as I do.

We are but boys.

We command no fate.

But here, together, these several feet apart,

our fates observe each other.

I cannot speak for you,

but upon myself, you've left a mark.

I read so seldom now, on benches like these.

Less, still, in such a blinding Sun.

But that day in the light I paused from my pages and saw you.

Did you see me?

Xeniad

Jupiter smiles upon us,

sentinel that he was said to be.

Xeniad of venture,

shine, shine upon me