When wind exactly right, eve-fall or late at night
her playing heard across neighbored fields, my delight
as sat a-porch in evening's dark, each note clean and clear
listened of its drifting notes, til reached my yearning ear.

Wafted notes from centuries past, replayed again as such
as neighbor poured out her soul, from fingerís gifted touch.
some bright mood feeds her fire, played harsh or but gently soft
filling my brooding mind from notes flung across my croft.

Stirrings within my soul, soothed by musicís healthy balm
hearing what she plays, life's fevered dreams - again brought calm
but only when wind is right - late eve til night darkened of
pianoed keys played soft or loud, their magic - much like love.

Have yet to tell what her music gifts, playing brings my way
grateful for her style, choice of classics - late evenings stray
brings olden melodies back to life, by how she plays
God forbid, never ups and move - hope she ever stays!
March 21, 2000

A voice on perfect pitch, with vibrato quintessentially clear
a choice I prefer, when tenorís rich legato - well-please one's ear
enraptures my  being, til drifts me far beyond Time and Space
some desire pleads to emerge, voiced - with poetic hymns of grace.
April 5, 2000

When sun goes down, telling day lost to night
there perceived, if should stand upon some height
heat and light exchanged, as mere echoes play
til cooling dark pervades all - ending day.

Such words, a scientist might use to tell
explain diurnalís sequence - measured well.

When sun should drop beneath western crest
know another day, last lain to rest
as shadowed darkness creeps across the land
til brief dayís tenured glass, runs out of sand.

Such words the poet breathes, both night and day
captures beauty, from what mere words - might pray.
February 16, 2001

Three long years slaving almost every day
life-thoughts penned into words, with metered play
voicings of oneís heart and mind, just had to say
when heard those strands of sifted thoughts - found to stray.

Today brings poems count to fifteen hundred plus
placed on web site, at expense of further fuss
three years, feelings put to rhyme - for simply must
yet few respond, as my hopes dry - to jejune dust.
February 24, 2001

When logic outwears thoughts, til futile
life felt estranged, so much seems brutal
words lack full-meaning from loss of zeal
tis only music - gifts strength to heal.

Without words, their tonal sounds are all one hears
solace inspired from beyond astral spheres
one's moods felt, hearing what feelings tell
as close as will come - to being well.

Soothing tattered nerves, bruised from living's plight
travails twisted up, til stretched too tight
music soothing one's souls with quiet calm
felt surreal - like some spiritual balm.
June 9, 2001

Some inward hunger, one's soul needs to feel
unknowing its source nor why
unexplained nor planned, in silence - felt real
tis such - music oft brings by.

Whereof its mood, a peacefulness inly felt
when heard old Classics slowly played
practiced fingers pianoed, so deftly dealt
gifting music - night softly strayed.

Lifting life beyond dull-days, of here and now
soothing life's frustrated ends or aims
drifting dreams from former days, their whys and how
thankful for what one's memory - still claims.

Such melodies yield hopes for future years
despite loss of those who cared
resolving attitudes brought from former fears
thoughtless others - often shared.

As music's healing balm becalms one's inward soul
when late evening's cool gently comes
until Nocturne's ending coda, resolves the whole
found music after - one still hums.
September 28, 2002

Unlike words we speak, merely tell
reaching minds, yet uncast their spell
tis only when hearts felt, their magic's touch
feeling words of Beauty's warmth - gifts of such.

Yea, magic of words written poetically
instilling their charm within, aesthetically
recalling what one's life history longly built
like gifted music, heart's hearing - deeply felt.

Written words conveying knowledge, but feelings too
inscribed with rhyme and rhythm, perhaps false or true
tis when poems out-read, your feelings - their goal
a magic poets craft - as might touch your soul.
March 25, 2003

Among those living, I yet remain
a question seldom asked to explain
yet of why, for now - not germane.

Some innate existential mood brought late of night
myself but an entity, one's birthing right
one of those uncountables - who must daily write.

A magic other creatures unknow
words wrote, futures learned from long ago
those who read of - such feelings bestow.

Endless years of Time, yet Life but brief
each one alive, Death its final thief
leaves behind - those struggled pains of grief.

Birth unasked, yet to live - future hopes demand
but to read to learn, so as may well understand
urge to know who we are - our hopes command.

Strong yet fragile, so easily we die
old words once read, told Truths - sometimes they lie
endless quest to know who we are - and why.

A fantastic gift to be alive
learned from those who wrote, felt-words contrive
even hopes of death-after - survive.

Among those living, I yet remain
write words newly found, stray thoughts ordain
perhaps for many - may seem mundane.
May 6, 2003

How so pleasant life must be - what a poet does
 on penciled-paper, writing poems from drifting fuzz
crafting themes of could-bes from dreams - of what once was.

Sit the day, some happenstance refashioned, old memories tell
unconcerned if true or not, twisted til rhymes rather well
yet wise enough to show, what poets cast - but Beauty's spell.

Truths, life-episodes first caught with unlistened ears
later scribed with well-chosen words, eyes fraught with tears
til within one's soul, whispered murmurs gently hears
or dreadful visions, trials endured - from passing years.

Words shaken from remnants, one's tatters left behind
re-historied into fictioned facts, rhymed words refined
revealing ancient mysteries, Time held - long-confined.

Partly true, sometimes lies - from such tis Beauty found
on rare occasions, words read - sing a pleasant sound
a poet's hope found honored - by what Beauty crowned.

If should chance beyond my death, new eyes later read
old hopes awakened love returned, some kindness bred
from afar that poet knows, worth their life once bled
years after - grateful for what their poetry said.
May 10, 2003

Eight poems written of but a single day
then knew Erato - finally come to stay
gifted words, would have unthought of before
enchanting further hopes - what might explore.
May 16, 2003

For three years, intent upon that stone
mallet and chisel, apprising eyes
precisely drew aim, just him alone
uncaring if done - before he dies.

Already finished within his mind
slowly emerging, hands giving birth
dreams daily measured, what grain might find
when finally done - others gave it worth.

Its half-completion, in silence waits
while below, daily mass was said
its destiny - among those greats
perhaps by his prayers - is daily fed.

I marveled, as knelt a far-back pew
in shadowed silence, felt its latent power
sculptured years spent, visions held in view
daily chisled high-held - on scaffold tower.

Dazzled by stained window's colored light
portending some eternal presence
solid stone carved into grandeured height
patient practice - exposed its essence.

Heard within that quiet required
gathering innate sense of Divine
ill-lit lighting, dark shadows inspired
midst churchen silence - one felt sublime.

For centuries, stood in place without a spoken word
yet told too much, til its proud beauty fully heard
til ages anon, faithless pagans deemed it absurd
finally crumbled down, smashed to pieces - but dry potsherd.

Divine twisted into Hate, mocked and scourged
each remnant sensed holy, now slain and purged
crushed into dry dust, til finally dies
a sterile wisdom, lost hopes - thought wise.

Yet its holied beauty held hopes for inspiration
despite despotic greed's acclaim by abjuration
til Christians rebuilt that cathedral, proud faith would declare
innate hunger of their souls, faith proved - need not despair.
August 27, 2004

His humor always held just below boil
with least hint, erupts a resounding laugh
seeds of truth vilified, grains sown with chaff
scattered those gray clouds away - for the while.

Much like these sloppy words that seem to rhyme
close enough, slurred over when quickly read
both laughed and smiled, no matter what said
loud laughter now unheard - five years been dead.
December 10, 2004

Perhaps most poems are merely prayers
whispered words, heard from on high
tis such silence, Heaven shares
gentle thoughts brought by.

Yet unknowing why
one freely shares
their firm Faith
deeply felt
at Death
May 31, 2005

Art but a mirror, wherein reflects
what each one sees in life, or themselves
re-imaged upon their hopes and dreams
experience well-tried - or found denied.

Our world's history, scribes wrote of facts
details each chose to see, as what
both Life and Death now means to them
at least for now, for Time - changes all.
June 3, 2005

Gray clouds gentled down as sprinkled snow
unknowing how much, dawn's morning shows
thin clouds adrift, with no wind a-blow
in such holy silence - Peace bestows.

Beauty felt within one's quietude
thankful with prayers of gratitude
weather brought - of high latitudes.

Of what portends, but Nature knows
of what may cost, my pleasure owes
of what it tells, words - poets chose.
December 1, 2005