your voice

It amazes me yet
how defiantly this life
craves ever my attention.

Why me? When all
is said and needfully done,
why should I still be?

I have known lives
far better than my own
much more deserving.

With each passing day
the distance grows into
a petty persistent growl.

Another day, another year
as time selfishly scratches
across my aching skin.

Why me? Why drag
this fading soul through
angry scaly days to come?

I long…

for the noisy distance to end,
for time to bid sweet reprieve,
to hold, be held, be known—

to hear you with my skin.

whispers

I ask myself in fear
why it maun be harder noo
tae hear the whisper
in the leaves which
hae begun tae mind
me o’ scratching mice.

The color painted sae
prettily aboon the skies
defies the imaginative
longing it once inspired
in my younger eyes,
graying in the dusk.

The majesty o’ the bens,
the glorious glens
seem forever faded
in the waning sun
as winter settles its
cold claws o’er my world.

An’ love? Aye, e’en so.
Ablow my straining
heart appending points
o’ sorrow seethe seedingly
for attention, crying
for the hope tae believe.

this moment

These bones sag,
the craggy skin that loosely shrouds them
blistering with age
like pages of countless neglected tomes

I remember well
how my feet flew across the playground,
how these hands unlined
grasped eagerly at play and joyful mirth

I watch them play now
and lay my fear to rest for a time at least,
the beast of my pains
falling silent as songs fill my heart

Time is jealous—
time is a base and wrathful whore monger,
a money lender
preying upon the naive and hopeful

But for this moment,
for this graceful gracious laughing moment,
time means nothing
and love is everything that has ever been

Or ever will be

there is a snake

There is a snake that dwells within me
I imagine it to be more of a serpent
if only because the name seems more ominous

It slithers silently through my being
sinking its fangs into my gut my lungs my heart
thriving on the blood that slows in my veins

I speak to it from time to time
inquiring after its determined progress
knowing there is nothing I can do to stop it

In the cold of winter between hungry breaths
I ask a boon of my ravenous companion
but I do not think he is listening

So I sip another dram and close my eyes
wandering through the warmest places
my memory can manage to reconstruct

Which is asking quite a lot, I know
but winter being what it is and the serpent
ever hungry, all I can hope to do is ask

the avarice of time

the avarice of time is unmistakable
cruelly rolling my flesh through the dirt
like a blind and callous dung beetle
leaving nothing but meandering paths
and pock marked speculations
defying the simplest interpretations
of what it all was ever for beyond this—
the banal flecks of dust left behind

and yet

when honest thought pierces gray morbidity
colors emerge of such unexpected vibrancy
willingly painted upon this gloomy canvas
by the most creative and caring artist
for you have illuminated this darkness so deeply
that I might ruminate for eons yet to come
and never again encounter a single strand
of that once ponderous web woven by ravenous time

me and my favorite author, Laya V Smith

precious little

precious little follows upon
in what remains of my life
and that so precisely intoned
as well to warrant skepticism
at the very least,
he dismissively stated

but she knowingly
most lovingly
demurred

you are so much more than this
so much more than you grant
yourself the willingness to be
having attained that which others
could only dream of,
and she touched his arm

he grunted doubtfully
and dipped his head
at his wrinkled hand

ungenerous time is not kind
and regardless of my achievements
in spite of my longings
it binds me to shadowed ends
i would have nothing of,
and he hid his hand in his lap

with a tear in her eye
she reached out
and pulled his hand to her lips

do not hide yourself from me
nor efface yourself so meanly
for this is what matters,
she said kissing his hand,
and even ruthless time
could never destroy this truth

you are mine and all
and be you so for now
and forever more

If only wealth could time implore

If only wealth could time implore
Its all too swiftly currents flowing
But a moment or more to pause

Then would I gladly this edifice deplore
This silken mantel, this gold yet glowing
And each once worthy zealous cause

For all that is fine and fair in this life
Is as naught compared to you, dear wife

But time does so egregious despise
The hopeful song of failing youth
The peaks attained, the battles won

Seeing only and all these dulling eyes
Fissures of a face worn ashen in truth
And graceless steps towards a fading sun

Yet all that time inglorious wove
Is as naught compared to you, dear love

Time demands its utmost fill
Its sovereignty is ever true
But I shall do all that I will
For nothing compares to you

BU6A8791

dust

the besmeared merchant sighs
his dilapidated stall shivering
even from the weight of the dust
that covers his trivial wares

useless all but for one piece
one timelessly treasured vase
facelessly reminiscent, recalling
nana’s gentle hands folding the clay

never would he have chosen
but for the direst of needs to place
her final work beneath the sun
shunned by one patron after another

a screaming child races past
a cloud of dust clinging to his heels
which kick at the angry world
with zealous determination

behind the child, lost in his clowd
an elderly woman growls, teeters
blindly rubbing her stinging eyes
as her hip collides with the stall

down it falls, beautiful in despair
down it falls, crashing to the earth
smashing a heart that had nothing
left to hope for beyond simply this

he does not scream, does not yell
does not tear at what remains
of the bedraggled gray mess strung
limply over his sweaty crown

his jowly countenance drips sorrow
into the dust of his finality
his skin cracks across brittle bones
enthroning a once proud man

as a naïve prince of fools