I know I can't hide
from shadows inside
they follow wherever I go
...
nothing is heard above a cruel wind
it drifts in from the north
its whisper turns to a howl
...
I got used to being a verb
usually transitive of course
holding lovers, moving mountains
rushing about banging into things
...
dying poetry is hard to write
a ghost leans over the keyboard
my words are empty as blank paper
...
the kiss of rain recalls a time
the world was green and new
and magic lived in every breeze
where time and seasons flew
...
no more norms
White House storms.
down the road a lynch mob forms.
...
grandfathers and great grandfathers
walked these hills
and further back in time
a hand flourished on the Declaration
...
the woods are dark and magical
the meadows damp with dew
but still the hills cry emptiness
beneath the awesome blue
...
a picture of the lonely moon
appears to fill my window view
so high above it surely knows
the secrets that I wish I knew
...
every clock is spinning fast
the time machine moves on
seasons race from spring to fall
another year has gone
...