the white chariot rises into the heavens
in the mirror of my dreams
and now my heart hums a new song
as i ponder the deep thoughts
of eternity
and so while i wonder of why and whereof
is the mist through which now
i walk
it is alright
it is ok
for see the lighthouse beckon
see the signal raised
there is more beyond than
mind can fully reckon
there is a land
which shores
i strain to see
and for a moment
in the corner of my mortal eyes
i catch a glimpse

misery filters
through the bar’s smoky haze
even though the music
proclaims triumphant rage
then again she smiles
what a sight to see
no matter this tawdry locale
perhaps there’s beauty in
this moment between you
and me

in torrents falls the rain
rat a tat tatting on
cathedral roof
and in response candles
flicker
as on our knees we pray
and ask God’s grace
upon us
as we bow our heads
this day
and dust falls from the high up
rafters
as thunder joins in on the chorus
oh Lord forgive our pride
as still in beneficent fashion
the water falls in buckets

oh wow
where does your poetry come from
she says with innocent wonder
in her eyes
and i take a quick breath
for she thinks the light
is mine
bonfires in the night
but who writes
the song that sing the stars

i like riding the underground when i don’t have anywhere
i particularly need to be
and i can relax and look at everyone else
and write the stories of their dreams
for some of them hold shopping bags
and some look at their phones
once i saw a woman cuddling with her husband
as they talked about their newfound home
and i once read over the shoulder of someone
texting with her best friend
talking about her trip back to London
and how she wishes she could stay in France
oh yes i know i’m a bit too nosy
but aren’t we all to some extent?
we are interested all in one another
which doesn’t stop me getting annoyed when
the young man muscles past me to get off
but then i laugh as i recall how i do the same
and all the times i’ve almost missed my stop
for i just like writing stories in my head
little snippets of each person’s day
i wonder if anyone is writing stories about me
a girl with a red winter hat
and oversized hoodie that goes to her knees

She lays the table with precision
a fine china plate here and there
and there and there
and above the glasses
then the napkins
and in appropriate places the silverware
for soon will whirl in the guests rosy cheeked
and proceed to drop with delight their winter coats
and they admire the table and offer rapturous praises
as they give warm hugs to everyone else in the room
and then they ask what smells so good
roast chicken and buttery mashed potatoes
sage and bacon dressing
and carrots and onions of course
properly rings out the all important question is it time for food
and he answers first let’s gather and pray and toast
and then sing a song together
but when is the chicken coming out of the oven
and he smiles as he takes off his apron
don’t worry dear friends
soon.

she doesn’t ask for my hand
but i give it nonetheless
and she takes it
ruefully
why she wonders
does the world cry
so many tears

the wilds of the inner city
streets call me
to the farther reaches
of the sky
see the painted columns
holding up the rivers
of the windblown
asphalt kissed
heights
and on the bank of the bayou
a tree that once knew green
catches her lonely eye

Leaning across the chessboard
that even she can’t see
moving pieces shrouded
by the remnants of their
humanity
the board is in shadows
and the queen topples
in silence
i wonder who moves
the other side