Softly, starlight slippers through silver leaves,
salving slender branches where willows keep their weeping vigil.
A sighing wind weaves grief’s misty purple veils,
hesitantly floating before sweeping down;
valley tears, fern quivering, blend with those heavy clouds weep.
Moss in variegated green feathers, paves paths primitive,
moonlight lends gray gloved hand to guide faltering feet,
trembling on cliff-sharp edge of blackest night,
stumbling forward, tracking an unmapped grief labyrinth.
Heart of mine, spent by the merciless beat,
lean hard upon hoarded memories, bittersweet.
Life, after such sharp parting, shields her flame,
tended as a mother tends her sleeping dear,
softly repeating through the night one poignant name
that only she who bore the pain can hear
in accents of the heart so sweetly clear,
echoing faint chords from the heavenly sphere.
Perhaps time dulls the sadness, keen,
or drives it deeper to a place unseen.
Copyright, July 1, 2026
the operating room waits in a pale hush
metal holding its shimmer like a vow
shadows gathering themselves into still corners
the air hums with low mechanical dreaming
soft pulses threading through the silence
as if the room keeps time for the living
gloved hands move with practiced, quiet grace
shaping unseen pathways in the air
preparing the body’s hidden journey
the lights rise into a slow white blossoming
illuminating the table like a threshold
where flesh and hope lean toward each other
anesthesia drifts like a pale unfolding tide
smoothing the edges of awareness
carrying the patient into gentle depth
monitors whisper the first faint awakenings
life stirring back through muted circuits
as the room releases its long-held breath
“Go and catch a falling star.”
(John Donne)
St Barbara, a poor white gloved icy ingénue,
Has long been a dusty piece of Black Forest wood
That grew out of the ashes of Sibylline books;
The black stone is gone from the Palatine --
Only infinitesimal phantasmagoria of the sea
Dwells deep within the grave mound of the soul
Whilst carrying a torch clothed with the sun;
Nikola Tesla still feeds a pigeon every day --
It’s an aperiodic dolphin atavism.
Awakened by an unknown lyre,
Such things drink virtue from a moon beam;
Only Saturn, the herald of lavender hope,
Silently watches the humble bird
From the depths of our star-drenched earth.
The sky dones the gown of darkness,
Holding the eternal tears of stars in its bosom,
Glimmering in the lashes on the verge of a fall before sunrise.
The clouds reach out towards the moon with gloved fingers,
Stroking the dying babe fading into the dawn.
The sky mourns the fading light at the funeral of night.
Upon the hallowed ground past midnight sighs
'Neath trembling yews and tombstones cold and sere
Did I espy, as the tempest began to rise
A maiden clothed in spectral white appears
Her ghostly raiment danced upon the restless air
Her visage pale with sorrow finely drawn
Betwixt the graves she glided into our ghastly affair
Her presence enthralling as the coming dawn
Within her hand a missive she pressed
Gloved fingers clad in evening’s formal hue
She whispered with the wind, she, a soul distressed
“Seek thou the attic there thy fate is due”
Anon the gale did whisk her form away
(Formerly known as Mrs. Emily)
And left me alone to ponder till the day
Epilogue:
After this wraithlike wedding of our souls
I cannot abjure this vision
In my mind it rolls and rolls as it goes
The day rises again over my bitterness.
The birds have not yet begun to sing,
I am already angry,
still in a bad mood despite financial security.
At the slightest provocation, I know I’ll end up handcuffed in a prison van.
I’m afraid I’ll eventually break.
I am not afraid of dying, but of living.
I come from hell and walk upon a hostile land.
I am full of rage: the human species does not deserve this generous planet.
Once, I had gloved hands and a hooded face,
a Kalashnikov under the bed and the windows always sealed.
Today, I am far removed from the illicit,
with my scars, my skills, and my convictions.
I know how to get rich quickly,
and I am aware of the consequences of my actions.
I live with my nightmares and my regrets.
the trombone had never been more appreciated or loved
frog dressed up in his best striped pants, his hands well gloved
took the instrument to the bog and began to play a merry tune
the evening was lightened by the brilliant light of the harvest moon
kinfolk had no idea how talented he was, their relative, Chay
his own mother was stunned at his ability; she met a new son that day
He did not stop at the trombone, he learned to play drums and the strings.
Then he ran off to Arkansas to play with an orchestra, in Hot Springs.
Snow.
The rifts and ledges.
Flakes just like to flake.
And eventually stay.
Snow covers cars a bit.
Then we uncover them.
We like to pretend that the snow is not melting down our spine, and destroying us.
Shaking.
Then we shake it off.
Gloved hands, taking them off.
If a stranger walked by, he wouldn’t help at all.
Snow covers my eyelashes a bit too.
Snow.
Towers over us in our sleep.
When it’s cold and our car won’t start this morning.
So it shuts us down.
Snow.
The snow plow did come through.
Eventually.
Then it came through the same street once more and it was crazy.
Then the snow stopped.
Gloved hands, throwing the gloves to the ground.
Breaking down because.
Snow.
Snow on a Sunday morning.
Doesn’t feel as bad, crazy, or unbearable.
I’m shaking, yet I’m on my cozy chair.
Snow towers in our sleep.
If it snows overnight?
I might have a problem.
Spills of flowers everywhere - elation !
I love to water each petal with joy
Bells and Daisies * Tulips and Carnations
I am a gardener named Helen of Troy
Garland dreams loopy Dahlia ali oops
"love me like I am" says each bud to me
Blooming kisses and rosettes, Tipsy Red
they are my yellows just like bumblebees
Cascades of waterfall blossoms, dot . net
impearled in my heart - adorneth and loved.
Each floralette is like a classical fret
diminished by none, a flare up en-gloved
Whimsical gardens *** florescent tandems
I'm an anthem of glory... a willful mayhem!
He spreads his lordly cape to slow his descent, gloved talons softly gripping metal throne, his obsidian pallium opulent and ominous. Empowered by wonder and awe, I swallow fear, holding the chthonic messenger’s gaze
Curiosity binds us
The vigilant Seraphim turns
They dock at the old ferry landing,
drip fern-water and quartz dust,
pull shapes from a memory
nobody can name.
The news calls them pioneers.
The city calls for volunteers:
one hundred credits a shift,
hazard pay if you stay after dark.
We line the streets in plastic ponchos,
swing buckets of bleach
at whatever falls from them—
glass teeth, velvet skins,
the small, sad faces they wear like necklaces.
The mayor cuts a ribbon made of hair,
offers a key to the city
that dissolves in the taker's hand.
Still, the parade lurches on:
a hollowed calf that leaks birds from its eyes,
a choir of mouths stitched into a winter coat,
a gloved hand, walking on its fingertips,
asking directions in sign language.
We clap.
We wave flags.
We rinse the sidewalk behind them, smiling.
We stay because the escape pod is too expensive.
There was never room for us anyway.
The loudspeakers keep saying:
Welcome home. Welcome home. Welcome home.
People rush and hustle,
Mopping with gloved hands, tools of steel,
Wiping away blood and sweat from the floor,
Scrubbing the metal, blades, and hooks,
Sponges damp like the weight of sacrifice.
The work ends with a final cut,
Leaving the factory restored,
But the air thick with the scent of iron,
Machines hum like the march of the willing,
Tanks rise like the flag of duty,
Until the stench of labor fades.
Galaxy, heart
erase, gaze
tender, cold
How do I love thee --
I cannot count the ways,
for there are none.
Not because the sun doesn't
grace thy face with its brilliance,
leaving the rays reflected back in a trance
and even the shadows dancing
as they trace thy golden reflection,
guiding thoughts through galaxies
tenderly gloved within thy gallant gaze
no imagination can erase.
Nor because the wind breathes traces
of divine intelligence
as thy tender breath reaches my wearied face.
No
Not because there is nothing to love,
but because love had left my ice-cold presence
long before we met,
and my heart was left alone
with no shadows of my own to dance
as they traced reflections of light,
for there was no light to trace.
Tomb of the Unknown
Twenty-one steps south down the black mat
Turns and faces east toward the tomb for twenty-one seconds
Turns and faces north, changes gun to outside shoulder and waits twenty-one seconds
Marches twenty-one steps up the mat
Turns and faces east for twenty-one seconds
Turns and faces south, changes gun to outside shoulder and waits twenty-one seconds
Twenty-one steps south down the black mat
The cycle is repeated
Three hundred and sixty-five days a year
Twenty-four hours a day
White gloved hands snap through the shoulder arms
Sharp green uniforms show no rank
Dark sunglasses hide the solemn stare of the guard
Select members of The Old Breed maintain vigilance
Over the marble tomb
The crowd must be silent
All must show respect
To those who are unknown
To the faceless and nameless
Who sacrifice all
Human hands and hawks have worked well together
Five thousand year record for falconry
An eternal bond of flesh and feather
Shows us how epic hawk hunting can be
As raptors light upon a gloved fist
Freed from handler's hoods hawks wing on high
See this dim lit tale through thicket and mist
Think how hawks think in the chase as they fly
These predators soar into human hearts
Seek nature's balance between bird and prey
Fiercely their talons grasp the killing arts
Pouncing and crushing victims every way
Returns to the glove are acts to behold
By the hands of man see nature unfold
105 words Sonnet 14 lines
Colored Pencil illustration by G. Gaul
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