Bright Night Flight

Soaring late

Through the ancient sky,

A swift chariot’s my vehicle.

The calming darkness

Slows my pulse,

My blood flows at a trickle.

Looking down

I find the site

That just then grips my breath.

Around the world it’s

The 25th.

And I’m

Over Nazareth.

Lost & Found

I was left searching
For new answers

After a friend

Wanted to know if

It was bad or good

That the lost keys

To a longer and

Contented life

Were puzzlingly

Found today,

Crumbling with rust

And floating face down

On a dried-up pond

Of tears.

Lost

The way home

Is now no longer

Just around the corner,

Where the owners

Of neighbourhood cats

And barking dogs

Are not far behind.

The way home,

Like lost hope,

Has been eroded

By swollen rivers,

Cut off

By broken bridges,

Eroded by

Rough seas,

Divided by

Endless rows

Lined with

Stranded others

Up ahead

And far behind,

Who now,

Lost as well,

Can no longer

Find a way

Or a reason

For keeping

To the hope

Of returning

Even halfway home.

Rain!

I tried stopping the rain from falling,

From destroying a road that's now part of my past.

But my power over the raindrops

Made them come down just as hard and fast.

Raindrop added quickly to raindrop,

Forming a mighty fighting force.

Raindrops built up with the weight of oceans,

No mere mortal could disrupt their course.

So I ended up under water.

I’m still stuck deep and could well drown.

The wisdom I offer now is that there’s

No stopping the rain when it says, “Coming down!”

Outranked

The sea never asks farfetched questions,

Seeks no clever answers from you,

Couldn’t care less why you’re on it,

Or who you are, where you go, what you do.

But it offers a sound education,

Somewhat different to the teachings on land.

Harsh lessons, extreme and exacting,

But get through them and you’ll understand

That respect for deep waters, and common sense,

Could turn bad luck at sea into good.

But too bold, too reckless, like twins out for a fight,

And you'll lose; all outranked fighters would.

Seasons

The two only branches
From a withered tree,
Both vigorous and fruitful
Through the seasons of life,
And then
The bright mornings and noondays wane,
Turning bleak and burdensome.
Both branches wither,
Losing resilience

As new winds blow.
And there’s no good reason why,
Except
That’s life.

The last mangoes of a season
Should never be sour.
But they sometimes are,
And Daylight Savings
Do no actual hoarding of time,
Putting none of it someplace
Where it could be retrieved
To extend the present,
Or add seasons,
Or claim more of the future,
Or keep branches
From withering.

Tides

Drifting on a dream of people and places,
Of streets once seen, and countenanced faces.
Corners of yesterday, paths from the past,
Have all folded away against wishes they'd last.
Stones plunging through water, ripples widening then gone,
Falling echoes of laughter, nightmares running past dawn
To continue as daydreams, falling harder than stones,
Ripping the day at its seams, tearing away flesh from bones.
Birds sing in the morning. Dragon flies at noon.
Sailors take warning, the tide's turning soon.