Economy of Time
Addicted to love, addicted to life
The centre of your attention
And the chill above the lamplight
Alike the the sanctity
Of small things, tender born
And plucked when ripe
The lining of young reveries
Still holding to their doubts
And the secret words that end all hurts
Within economy of time
A joy for being that’s overseen
By the jealous autumn night
And the breath upon the window
Eddied by a stream of conscious flight
There’s much to stay and learn from you
But my feelings have all the might:
My clarity gave charity to the kingdom
Of a foolish, yearning heart
Filed under 
The End of The Day
At the end of the day
The door swings open without delay
Brother and sister already by the door
Without a moments hestiation,
She decides the time has come
For that curt southern breeze
To brush a swollen, rosy cheek
With curious fingers following
The fallen fragipani trail
To feast in a sensuous way
At the end of the day
Watching the cautious late summer sunlight
An interplay of porcelain tattoo
Of lines and of gauze
Etched marks of wear, the gentle tear
Of threadbare things,
Clambering of fingers on ivory
And the precise swing of breath,
A night of jazz to wash it away
All by the dusty windowsill
At the end of the day
From this better vantage point
Fresh laundry crispens beneath the sun
Dappled light courses the weeping willow
With branches half-sunk beneath the water
And as evening beckons the sound of brass,
Grease and tobacco and a crescent moon
Here, we lament to the passing of time
And praise our senses, those we better knew.
Our Craft, Our Shepherd
Once upon a time they awoke,
Not without reason and not without duty
Never taken from their daily quest and motion
Many of kin: each to the craft of making
Each to the craft
Sublime and gentle and real
Not without a moment for doubt and not without pain
For even when the painter took his feather bristle brush
His canvas the Lord and The Shepherd of his aching soul
He cast the pastel paints of blood and water
And though they seeped from the edge of deviance
And danced the devil’s dance of desecration,
He was master and voice of the craft of making
Day n’er passed without a fruitful yield
A warmly welcoming, ever-expanding index of personal daily ruminations, quotes, recipes, poems & photography. About the author »
Select a Category
Recently
- Economy of Time
- Coltrane: On Green Dolphin Street
- Afghanistan’s Plee for Renaissance: Return to Modernity
- Holiday & Meeropol: Taking Strange Fruit From The Poplar Trees
- Bon Voyage, Oliver, Adieu!
Contact me
Subscribe to the feed 
