Outbuildings march in a line

point to the lighthouse

quiet in abandonment.

It lives with the terns

surveys the ocean's solitude.

Remote area sweeps down

butts against a granite face

banked by rocks that rise

to meet a grassy slope.

Only dandelions thrive

poke heads greedily

towards the sun

taps roots thrust deeply.

Outdated by technology

once a place

of welcome light

it longs to serve again

echoes the birds' mournful songs.

Tiny Citadels

We look in places dark and damp

a dense forest of old oak

to find our friendly fungi friends.

Favorites are hiding in the leaves

easing to peek from beneath

or sitting on a fallen log.

They stand there - tiny citadels

fragile structures reaching

skyward throug the mist.

This is the world of the mushroom.

Diverse in color they range

from scarlet to ebony to white.

Some give off an eerie glow.

They are shameless in the way

they spread their spores

to the four winds.

Come spring life cycles will renew.

With dementia the mind dies, only the shell remains.

Last Bit Of Sand

Mouthfuls of air

are the only sounds

that vibrate in my mouth.

It is a constant perishing.

God, I want to feel the crush

of phrases on my tongue

the sudden weight

of every aching word.

My fear is emerging indifference.

Once a mindful current surged

now a dry riverbed remains.

My tongue licks the last bit of sand

from my brain then...nothing.

Hold Of The Wind

The pilot light of speech flickers low

and time stands to the side,

my brain crackles static

shrinks to a single haywire cell

and I'm greedy for thoughts to form.

My belly heaves

as words lodge in my throat

too faint for human ears.

I remember the sound of my voice

and my thoughts are now stored

in the hold of the wind,

molecules hiding their music.

I carry my secrets close

but not by choice,

my memory has crumpled like tissue.

Tucked

Friends shape words

I can only imagine

and I'm pursued by shadow wings

that delve into my guts.

My brain is composed of cold

blue veins and my speech

is a tragedy of fragments.

I can't scissor through

the darkness in this

bottomless hole

and my words are tucked

under my tongue, hiding.

Hunched shoulders pull

at my posture and I sit

and stare out the window

contemplating...nothing.

(C)

A Scent Of Change

My morning brightens

as daylight starts its flush

and thin sunlight

strokes the trees.

Raindrops tiptoe

on the windowpane

in a gentle dance.

In counterpoint,

hail tangos

in a carousel of motion

bouncing its way to greet

foliage weaving its new life.

Clouds belly in full sail

and rainbows fade.

I shiver with need

as spring tugs at my heels

and the air is filled

with birdsong.

Completion #2

Sharp sun never

pierced the skin-graft

of the cloud layer today

leaving a sepia sketch.

The first ebb of daylight

fell silent like

an overcoat of snow

dropping in lifeless chill

leaving a melancholy mood.

Night's head bends

with candlelight fractures

in dwindling shadow

and the day

speaks its completion.

(c)

Flight

Swooping birds

reign over the sea

deaf to the sound

of the surf

and shadows dance

beneath their wings.

A speck of white

like a far-off gull flickers distantly.

Waves sweep

across the horizon

and seaspray

mists the beach

leaving me

with the taste of brine

on my lips.

A lusty breeze swirls the air

plastering hair to my face.

If I could catch the wind

I'd be reborn

and lift my arms in flight.

(c)

Winged Flight #2

I listen to your

body language

as we dance

in pleated space

and fold our arms

in an economy

of motion.

Lungs weave

a thread of air

and internal musings

float and fearfully attach

afraid of loss,

a tentative momentary gift.

Moonlight moves

in the waltzing wind

and shivering shadows

tango in winged flight.

Scented memories

belong to the sweet

echoes of youth.

(c)

Dormant Counterpoints

There is in each day

a conglomerate of minutes

having their own significance.

Some of these pebbles of time

speed along with a rush

while others drag their feet

winding fragments into balls.

Perception is the key,

can...will...should they

bob in agreement

float on a whisper

or be soaked in grief,

just broken moments

in pale shadow.

They form a work of wonder

as instinct flickers,

dance a fitful dance

then slide into my mind

with singular vision.

(c)