Rolling Days

The day is done and passing by.

The sun has rolled beyond the roots of the trees.

The counter-balance moon rides up,

Fragmented by the ink-sketched trees.

It has been a day of failures and victories,

Of old-old aches and new-old aches and

Exaltations and melancholies.


Risings and falls.


Risings and falls.


It has been a day of peace

Interleaved with threads of fear and anger and frustration,

Like my old blue shirt has a few old rips patched with old black thread.


The day passes and the night passes.

The moon rides down and the sun rolls up.

New old days and old new days.

The hours count off and the minutes count off.



The day is done and passing by…


Layered Ghosts

Old oaks.

Green tunnel over gray asphalt roads.

Warm spring day.

History reaches up from the rich soil and ties my heart

In strands of whiskered moss.


I feel the pull of time,

The past blending into the present seamlessly.


Last year,

Last century,

Flowing unbroken.

Island time.

Lowcountry time.


It may just be me.

Others see a place like any other place,

Like the place where they live,

Barely noticed.


I seem to see the ghosts.

Layers of people,

Generation on generation,

Wool trousers behind mule plows,

Bonnets and muslin,

Fedoras and starched white shirts.

Old ghosts and new,

Like paintings on glass,

Layered one on another.


All of it,

The constant, persistent life of it,

Pulls on me,

Connects me,

We take our place as tomorrows ghosts.


Old oaks

To acorns,

To saplings,

To old oaks and

Green tunnels over gray asphalt.


I am a ripple on the water,

A collapsing wave-form,

A glimmer,

A shimmer,

A shadow in the corner of the mind’s eye.


I am, in brief, brief.

A life of heartbeats like a drum solo.

Maybe furiously pounded out,

Or quietly done;

But only a small part of the show.


So say we all.



If so…







If a brief candle,

What do I illumine?

If a paltry player,

What is my hour of fretting worth?



A whisper of wind on a hot day, present and then forgotten,

Lost in the heat.




I am not so brief,

So quick,

So sudden and fleeting.


I think I was made,





For eternity.


Not a shadow but the Platonic ideal that casts the shadow of me

Into this quicksilver world,

Illumined by the everlasting,

Briefly in this place

But eternal in eternity,

Unending beyond the end.

Mustard Seed Step

Would that I was what I would be.

Shall I be what I should be?

I could be what I should be,

Which is what I would be.






Released from fear,

That great chain of the soul,

That lock on the would, could, and should.


I stand on the cliff

And fear the fall

But I wear wings unknown to me.


Fear holds my feet

Rooted to the ridge;

The world’s weight wearying every step.


One step,

A step of smallest faith,

A mustard seed step,

And the bonds will break


And I’ll soar.