Frost

With morning frost is a coming of the folding within,
A compression, an inwards sliding of the Self inside;
A carapace forms against the chill, cocooning cares.


The Sun shorts itself; limits its light in colder months,
And Nature lessens with it: Winter is a small season;
Ivy turning to a brittle, bitter burgundy on the walls.


Whole world is folding itself in flannel now for Winter.

Piercing Wind

Late Autumn's piercing wind angles to penetrate
Every eave and tiny opening in house and heart;
Sharpening cold that whimpers Winter's coming.


Gray conquering blue, over coat of chilling cloud
Intimidates the cowering sky, threatening snow;
Dew crackles into frost as the grass grows hard. 


In this slated space, slack time before an avalanche
Of Fate dams up our drown world in frozen destiny;
Vow to make history, not be one on whom it's made.

Marble Halls

Last night I dreamt I dwelt in marble halls;
White columns deep veined red and green,
Stained yellow with age to a soft shimmer.


Soaring impression of freely floating suspension.


Groin of iron girdles the mellowed masonry;
Unseen ugliness firms integrity of structure,
Gray rays of steel bending flawless surface.


Satin stone leans upon metal beneath for strength.

Horn of Winter

The trains of winter horn warnings inconsolable;
They whistle plurals in doubling sign of dangers,
Torn voices divided into plaintive sheets of pain.


Winds of winter bear complaint of heavy sinking shapes;
Of cold mud and bones and of slogging boots of soldiers,
Mission unknown, pledging to uncomprehending deaths.


Sails of winter heavy-bellied with unknown destinies;
Bow of providence plowing beneath waves of chance,
Traveling on, fighting on, sailing on, to what grim port?

Medals and Ribbons

Medals and ribbons are smeared across the chests of uniforms
In praise of war.  The salary for killing is paid in gaudy badges.


A pride of patches across the breast makes of no man a knight
If the cause he serves and those deeds he does have no glory.


America was begun in refusal; in the statement of shouted No.
Laughter at the ridiculous crown of regency primed its origins. 


To speak truth to power has always been the province of poets;
Not of soldiers.  We swear allegiance to nothing but our own art.


Poetry forms an island nation, separate and distinct from others.
Soldiers obey, poets can't and won't; that's the real shield of life.

Afterward

Neither red nor blue, something in between;
A purple mist descends, transcending grasses
That lay below into soft shades of silvery gray;
A patchwork of shadows humped against trees.


Wars between the children of Moses and Muhammad
Have made many graves and ghosts.  They lie there.


Together.

Patriots of Bureaucracy

They were long dead long before they died.
Empty houses with darken windows drawn.
Boarded storefronts amongst silent streets.


Speak against power and be done with life.
You high officials, the dark veil of your laws
Gravities the heart; binds it down in statute.


Black letters enacted throttles enterprise;
Chokes commerce, and strangles synergy.
Bureaucrats ride us with their regulations.


These are patriots of particulars; critics of
Citizens, living lives of consensus and debt.
Resist. Barricade them in any way you can.