Writing
In lamenting death I do forget that Time
Does heal all wounds. Perhaps our timed retire
Is no more than fair Time’s fair time who prior
Did us tenderly love. Or worse the crime
Could oùrs be who waste the hour sublime
Away from loving Time with thoughts placed higher
Towards that harlot Fame whom all desire,
Betraying Time’s plain trust for luscious rhyme.
Her heart thus hurt we her cannot lay blame
Who breaks the beating knot that binds us here
And cuts the bloody tide we hold in vain.
I too await this fate but yet for Fame
I two know well and both do rightly fear,
For both have left the greats to shame and pain.

Hold your mouse over the Writing link in the menu above to see my short stories and sonnets. My latest update is 4/28 with an untitled poem (see below) and about twenty sonnets I'd neglected to add.
This is the last
worship. The strain
of the drought and
harrowed page will toil us
no longer to refuge of those
harbors where life finds
liquid effigy. Darling: there's a
poor port set against the
sea to travel twice
twelve books for, one island at a time
when islands scale-ribbed like currency coined
the earth they skimmed. But come back
is any death's nostalgia; when all the waves are
gone there, too, goes a brave
shore and the seams of a lead lined
mirror made stone like fire and
time make stone of water.
Add you,
now,
add you prayer muttered into a
cup with the flushed spirit sick
with god, all
that in that
little dome where the terror and the
recluse lie, and listen;
you can almost hear the treble blown
back, the breath resplendent with cloud
-top trumpets wrought on high.
And when you
take those last quiet
thoughts from the blasted
valleys of her
red burned lips
before all's to darkness—
there's a salt pillar
poured sad falling if ever—
and everything dies
on the tipping of a moment plunged into the
past, sweet doom in a drink and all love
left written in the hair
she leaves, that's when you know you're
in passion's small mind.
This is that
last worship,
the living quietude, supreme in an
unrest, that takes our ecstasy and aches
in us all time, like a clock worked to
death or a light boat
fretting the night dyed
ocean's churn.
It needs no belief;
it is only a question:
will I go, too?
will I return?