gold and dross

Signs of Fall
II.

In emerald seas overhead,
a few select leaves are already blinding red,
trying to hasten the changing of their brothers
who are not quite so forward-minded.

An ambler at night
is told morning is near
but he scarcely believes
he’ll see clearly his way even then –
all his life he’s lumbered through
sunless and moonless rotunda
sans light but expanse-shrouded fires
nigh older than time

He's tracked the circular tread
of their wandering ways overhead
and studied their rolling reflections in vast black
span of the

A Voice From Heaven

My life is measured in light years,
as near as I can tell I am a god;
long through dark abyss I’ve trod,
much longer than it first appears.

Born of ancient fire larger
than any in the universe
(but all too soon dispersed),
I wended my way ever farther.

It’s lonely sometimes, often cold
except approaching perigee
‘round flaming sphere

Signs of Fall

I.

A brown plume of infield dirt
mounts on a stiff breeze
as undefined and ephemeral
as the days of a summer gone
by the time the runner’s made it home
the dissipating dust cloud soars over
a neighboring field where town soccer
has begun – and then it is no more.

Pearl of Greatest Price

In a world where rust corrupts
I look for lasting beauty;
most of my days I’ve sought my luck
across lands dark and dirty.

In a world where moth eats ‘way
I choose to pursue pearls
whose lust’ry finish never fades,
enchanted iridescent swirls.

Once upon a time I glimpsed
a portal to another realm,
and shining constant there within
an

Fall Scenes
IV.

Sharp crunch of acorns cracking
underfoot on path we’re walking
calls to mind the sounds of crackling
kindling in the winter
that’s coming, but we try avoiding
speaking it as rather we would
take our leisure by enjoying
color-filled, crisp saunter.

the young white male
might be as well
the old white whale
scarred and virile
ever out of reach
no matter how each
hunts him

already seen too much
and cast as such
a beast so evil
that he shouldn’t be so
bitter he’s left no rung
for a life with anyone
that loves him

no scholarships
or jobs programs
to safely pull him
back to land,
keeps exploring
murky depths
while

The reaper’s luminescent scythe
hangs low in the evening sky
handle hidden by the horizon
cold sickle blade gleaming
a surreal fuchsia-rose seeming
to anticipate a harvest soon for man;
lethargic, bows down as it nears the land,
looming larger, blood red hues grow
from grazing the dark round field below.
Transfixed, I watch its sweep impossibly slow
plunge

While walking a cobblestone street yesterday
I happened to glance up just in time
to see a wonderous thing, a thing I’d say
was miraculous, even divine.

Above the gas lamp post hung in the air
a single brown leaf, unbothered, unmoving,
and my thought as transfixed I stood there
was the power its stolid behavior was proving:

a resistance of gravity, wind,