Hold Your Breath

brilliant daylily


Hold your breath, you mortals

dressed in borrowed skin; this flesh

is none the wiser for all

its pomp and frenzy, nor more

permanent for all its sheer

transparency. Tread lightly

on this hallowed sphere, ingest

into gossamer lungs this

gossamer oxygen (pale

ribbons, bare hints of spectral

wares weaving life to living)

which seeks to wrap the broken

things with something less broken.

Dare you raise your head into

heaven? Walk in sandaled feet

where bushes quiver with flame?

Romanced, death may yet conquer

all – unless we marry Love

to Chaos, Grace to Weakness;

in that thread of hope-light, flesh

may yet walk in dignity,

skin wrap bare bones in pupal

cases which crackle with life.


Of Birth and Death


Window to another world

where Narnia is freed at last,

where what the winter wind has hurled

can settle into Ice Age past.

Death to one sounds living knell,

 swan song’s notes to bury snow;

 Spring arises from its shell

as Winter sinks to grave below.

Morning Breaks


Morning breaks –

breaks night’s grip,

crushing darkness.

Breaks nightmare worlds

and midnight prowls.


evening’s despair

and twilight’s angst.

The break of day

brings such beauty,

such hope,

such clarity –

should not the breaking of me

as Morning Star rises

bring beauty?

Let dark

and decay

and fear

and despair

once be broken,

and I will rise

with the Son

on the wings of the dawn,


brilliantly lit,

whole and holy.

Let morning


Song of Next Year’s Moon


Hear the hum?

Energy in ray-song form,

calm before the new year’s storm,

shimmer-shine to keep hope warm,

calendarish tune.

Feel the drum?

Beating to a march you choose,

notes which capture inner muse,

symphony you can’t refuse,

Song of next year’s moon.


What song will you sing to start your New Year?  Only you know the notes – sing it well…

Graveyard of Bloom

Graveyard of bloom,

cenotaph to life –

all is still.

Last season’s prospects

come here to

mark the place

where the brave have fallen,

and the heroes wither.

Crude crosses, these –

a lid to keep the suffering at bay.

But beneath the headstones,

life is re-born;


decomposition feeds the sod.

After the first sleep of death,

the Reign of the Living

will find its birth

beneath the

graveyard of bloom.

Dying Day

Dying day steals breath from lungs

and leaves a vacuum –

a black hole where vacuoles blindly gasp.

It sets on hopes and dreams

and spirits them into the Underworld,

a black hole where Hope writhes and gnashes teeth.

Heart sinks with it,

pregnant with powerlessness,

a heaviness sensed rather than measured.

But this you know –

you survived another day.

You rose and breathed and battled the demon hordes

and denied them their pound of flesh.

You belong to the Club of those who are rising from the ashes,

scraping themselves off the bottom of the Man’s shoe,

reclaiming fragments of the mirror whose breaking ushered in the past

seven years.

And you know that as sure as that sun is setting,

it will Rise,


and usher in a new day.

So you allow lungs to empty,

for in emptying,

they can be filled…