A somber winter’s tale

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Morrow calls the late sun to rise
to carry away the raw nights of ice

I failed the riches in bleakest of life
and buried the poorness in crustiest glaze

no pledge in faith
no want in love

and all the speeches remain the same

No musings
No pennies
No linings
No hope

some would have been
some would have lost
it’s sorrow to day
and hardship to night

(In the forge of the earth,
a  primrose may know)

Clover of Four

(for my mother who would have turned 85 today)

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Betwixt the primal automn air
I stroll along on worn out fields; I look for her in glowing leaves
that tumble to content despair

I never knew how she could spy
a fourleaved clover in the grass; but when she left to join the clouds
her mistery fell on bristly rye

I try to pierce the muddled mist
and call upon creation to keep the promise that she’d made
to find me in a secret tryst

It seems a search to no avail
I hunt, inspect and comb the green; perhaps there is no greater scheme
she left to leave nor sign or trail

But there’s a pause, a halt in time
a gust of everafter scent; and there before my watery eyes
clovers of four and five sublime.

Hymn of the elusive magic

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It is the hope for a window agleam in an open house
when tundra nights stretch beyond the morrows

It is the hope for a roof ahead in a faithful land
when libellous streets curl beyond the frontiers

 

It is the hope for a raft afloat in a placid ocean
when hungry waves crash beyond the shores

It is the hope for a cloud adrift in a lucent sky
when furious storms lash beyond the heavens

 

It is the hope for a seed alive in a friendly soil
when barren sands rush beyond the gardens

It is the hope for a song aloud in a mellow hall
when fatal quiet reaches beyond the gates.