I’ve Heard the Echoes


I’ve heard the echoes,
chased the shadows,
danced with the reveries
of phantom caresses.

Retreat with me
to a safe space
‘neath the snow-laden burrows
behind the curtain of remembrances

where we will carve out
the annals
of innocence and mirth,
and ascend the smoky hills by night’s end.

Art: “The Road in front of Saint-Siméon Farm in Winter”
Claude Monet


Space, Time, Distance


Our lines were drawn by buried affections
Gilded by quivering skins
That knew estrangement,
But that soon would find oneness

On a path illumined only by
Light that space had abandoned.
Repose had ceased to placate the weary
Even when the journey seemed unbroken

And the hours fell back upon their slopes.
We will refuse to sigh until
The dusk of negation is suspended,
Until I can feel all your promises

Slithering in my thickened hand,
Restless as the leaves aflutter,
Witness to moments that danced until prostration
Even while the stars began to wonder in our direction.

Art: “Neige au soleil couchant”
Claude Monet



The impression of your hand in mine
Lingers in a pool of usurped moments
As I cast my shadow down the hill
Where I coveted your face
With searching lips
For the first and last time.
The centuries will hear my beseech
And expand as tunnels inundated with the
Dust of the beloved and the fallen.
The ferns will outgrow their bodies
And begin to sashay nimbly above the
Moon-glazed swards that birthed them.

The tortoise will remember to smile again,
And his legs will gain strength
As his journey decompresses
And his resting place arises in a gale of
Furious, breathy arias
Abiding their impending freedom.
Should the seas open up for your arrival
And your star begins to weep,
Do not wait for me,
For timeless I have become.
We have loved as the tiller’s dream
Loved the hillside,
As the edifice now loves its song.

You might find me buried deep in the trough
With mirrors on all sides.
Do not seek my likeness,
For I am all of them
And probably none of them.
Fear nothing as you close your eyes
And slowly restrain your breath.
Do not awaken until infinity has
Called you to behold two smiling trees in the fore.
Open your eyes,
Go lie among them,
Eyes facing the sea,
And breathe again,
Just a little at a time.

Art: “The Church at Varengeville, against the Sunset”
Claude Monet

Where We Are Going…


Where we are going,
Enigmas await
With hands extended
Bearing ripe stones,
Expressionless cabochon
Droplets of stilted rain,
Or a petty curse from
The fountains below.
Beyond this threshold
You are masked,
Surrounded by ever-advancing
Entrails of an abandoned Spring.
Without movement
You’ve become an efflorescent statue
Mocking time and
Pilfering its colors
Until the last one is drawn
Patiently and elegantly devoured,
Just in time for the advent
Of the weakened penumbra
You freed years ago one morning
Blanketless now in the cool of dusk,
Naked, with trembling feet
Smiling tentatively.

Art: “Garden Path at Giverny”
Claude Monet

Down at the Alameda


Down at the alameda
We shook hands, 

Told stories,
Then laughed some more,
Until we forgot.


It was the place
Where life happened unconditionally,
Where leaves found their rhythm
In errant breezes
And paused to collect
A tear or two;

Where I once found a shell
With ridges decayed
Punctured with a tinge of lust
That tickled the jaws
Of feral plum seeds
Stripped of their memories
And spewed forth
From the mouths of happy beasts.

Art: “The Garden of Essai, Algiers”
Pierre-Auguste Renoir


Heeding the veiled call…

1240342_557730997614752_2042269807_nHeeding the veiled call of the sea
Whereupon elements of
Intermittent truths abound,
We pushed with the borrowed fortitude
Of hallowed and transient awareness,
Segmented by traces of a moon’s swift touch.

We hunted the winds and quartered them,
Dutifully placing them at the edges of
Our darkened peripheries,
Marking an approximate end
To every course we
Had ever hoped to surmount.

With irregular bursts of passion
We ignited flares to
Illuminate the history of
Many a journey lost,
Only to dissipate back into
Hazy embarkations,
Blurred shorelines
And muffled soundings.

Art: “A Seascape, Shipping by Moonlight”
Claude Monet



Cosmic distances
Have kissed their limits
Hello and goodbye.
And ‘ere the moment
They are at last embowered
By these watchful arms
A keeper emerges in the offing
Without a word,
Speaking only with compassionate hands
That toil ceaselessly in iridescent shadows
Cast by a remote awareness
Of where the smallest path once lay bare,
Dutifully awaiting a chance at perfection.

Art: “Verger en Fleurs” (Orchard in Bloom)
Claude Monet

I am a Child…

I am a Child...

I am a child
Of hands apart.
I sway to scattered muses
Tethered to reluctant arms.
I scamper down rubato paths
Lined with fine green mist
And twisted blades
Of fiberless grass.
I have a meeting
With the elders of open worlds
And free-roaming beginnings.
I will reunite with friends
And sing them my joys.
What lies beyond this towering hillside
I may never know,
Or want to know.

Art: “Spring, Plum Blossoms, Pontoise”
Camille Pissaro