A Tree Trunk Seat
A Tree Trunk Seat (For Gary Snyder) 1 Winding grains of time under a crystalline sky we have walked along
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age
Age Doesn’t Matter
In this world. age doesn’t matter, we are only as old as we feel and if we wish we can
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Those Things Once I Knew….the Spell
So long the spell, those sensual notes of complicity, when driven by passion’s flame igniting circumstances and testing relationships, when
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As Time Settles and We in Acceptance Afford
Days flow like gentle streams, trickling time over earth and stone, to follow paths meandering, to find the stillness of
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A Poet’s Heart
I fear the days when words find solace in shadows, hiding from a mind in a state of disarray, and
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As the Master Waits
Let time abide its own ragged path, one moment slow, the next so fast, unnoticed, and are we at its
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Until Then I Will
As I decay, let flesh falter under sun, so blemished and vaguely open to life’s failing light, I tremble not
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The Sanctum Has No Breaches
This, my sanctum… Step not into my rooms without qualification, for they are hard-fought spaces, lapped by the shores of
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Time Escapes Me, but I’ll be Famous When I’m Dead
When came that echo, that awoke time to tap me on the shoulder, and what countenance before me tests my
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Till the Hand of Change Prevails
At ease with the falling leaves, that autumn where life faces winter, as the warmth of sun departs in the
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But a Number
But a Number You of endangered castes Wandering days of the past The sum of your age matters not
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All I See Before Me….Infinity
Infinity and me… Vanquished light recedes to night with a whimper, and star-crossed those beneath, gazing into the firmament, their
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My Childhood Home
I strolled the lanes, streets and byways of my childhood home, and like echoes of my past, I heard the
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Where the Old Shed Sits
The Old Shed Remains… Cat creeping vines like slender green fingers weave their way between dry grey paling s, and
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Age is No Sentence, it’s a Freedom
Faster so it seems, that slit of a half-opened eye, aware of the life slipping by, and whether blissful ignorance
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My Ego Wears a Cardigan
Toward the end the beginning seems further, and dull those memories become, so far back tis but a glimmer of
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A Writer’s Creeping Age
Age, like the flow of sin upon skin, imparts its wrath, and at some point unrecognised I am, skin
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Reflections of Age
Youth held in reflections, unwanted truths Reflections of past… memories held Time carves deep grooves, etches skin and minds peruse
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