Tall pillars rise in quiet, holy grace,
And catch the golden shafts of dying day,
A green and hidden, ancient resting place,
Where busy winds and shadows softly play.
The leaves breathe out a sweet and earthy sigh,
Far from the rush of world and hurried sky.
Under the tree's canopy,
I see dappled shadows,
Light dancing in utter glee,
Shafts shifting in shine-shows!
In the sky, I watch rainbow's
Shimmering seven hues,
And they gleam in glowing pose,
Colouring my world-views!
At night, I find the full moon
Hiding behind the clouds,
Sparkling with the stars, light's strewn
Across the darkened shrouds.
Majestically, she minds the masts
on a million misty mornings,
unfurling her sealskin sails
against a pearl-glass dawning;
impeccably, ivory light illumines,
shimmering softly on silver waves.
She holds her position proudly;
sails, pale petals upon the spars,
unfold in porcelain splendor.
Her gaffs and yards, bright shafts of light
banish darkness before her,
a single white rose sea rising.
Copyright, July 10, 2026
This poor man's road, for dirt track
Stumbling now on down.
Humility's trite-spoke route!
And nearest semblance.
As dimly, shadily kept.
As meagre; minor.
Whose shafts of light passing through
Hope's rays, hearts of lance.
She sits in the marrow of the
quiet house,
stirring cappuccino coffee unit it
grows cold under her
thumb.
His closet door stands wide,
an open throat
exhaling the faint, stolen
scent of cedar and old wool,
while across town, his keys
clink on a different kitchen
counter.
She watches the dust motes
drift through the heavy
shafts of afternoon light,
each one a tiny, forgotten
universe slowing down to
die,
trapped inside the stillness
he left behind when he
chose a younger woman.
The telegraph has forgotten
how to ring, so she speaks
only to the walls,
her voice a thin scraping of
dry leaves against the
floorboards.
She does not wash the
mirror because her own
eyes look back like
strangers,
hollowed out by the shadow
of the woman who took her
place.
When darkness falls, she
wraps herself in the heavy
quilt of her own grief,
listening to the house creak
and settle into its permanent
isolation.
She closes her eyes not to
sleep, but disappear,
wishing the night would
swallow the remainder of her name.
“There is nothing worse than ignorance in motion” Goethe
Roaming round the white altars
Where pharaohs raised their arms
The black pig of ignorance
Casts a passing shadow
Across the shafts of Lotus columns
Erect Egyptian guardians of stillness
Watching undisturbed over eternal time
Witnesses abound, like hidden treasures under
The earth —and like common vices upon the
Face of the earth, contorted with the hammer-stare
Of frozen shafts of light descending fast on a
Warmless street.
Good and bad are linked with the chain-graft
Of our wobbling times —a stinking, old robe
Turned inside-out.
The smell of stale beer creases the raised brows.
Witnesses grieve ceaselessly.
And from their hidden abodes —
Mere rubbles among fallen clumps of oiled hair —
And with eyes glazed and searching,
They see noses run alongside weeping eyes.
Escaping pain and turmoil from the world of men,
I walked away and disappeared
into a forest by a gurgling spring,
and there, I found the many shades of green
calmed me and soothed my wounded soul.
Where shafts of sunlight found the glittering water,
and beauty was a kind of psychic balm,
I wondered how this place could be so quiet,
when so much, in fact, was going on.
A breeze song whistled, causing reeds to sway,
as rock and stream danced a happy jig,
and, within, inch long minnows swam.
Year 2026 springs like crack of dawn in the east
Bringing hopes in shafts of sunlight against the mist
A clear blue sky offering more rooms for new opportunities
Over mountain ranges of dreams to follow, accomplish.
A flower bud, now projecting in our garden with a finer hue
That’ll blossom with fragrances on how we nurture, view
A new leaflet that flips its pages shortly like clustering of rose petals
As next set of memories with some trials that’ll polish us like metals.
A new clean slate for another life’s experiences and stories to write
Scripted by fate which must be directed by faith in heaven’s height
An avenue to trek to a spot with more challenges and surprise
Pace zealously with prayers for our victory this yeat hrough Jesus Christ.
Sleeping inside three oak walls and a creaky double door
Is something that hasn't glimpsed the sun
Since I first hid it from my pupils.
I've taken great care in decorating the sides of the wardrobe
With carvings of flowers and horses,
And everything else one would expect
From an old closet such as it.
I've stacked my plump balls of mismatched yarn
On the tippy top of its dusty roof,
so that when people ask me why I have such an old closet
In my new room, I can tell them it's for storage.
I've also locked the door with a little something I call
Omission and deflection, two very useful tools
I keep in the tool box under my bed,
Also not in view of any shafts of light that may trespass
Into the room through the bedroom window.
Shafts of lazy light
Autumn shades cascading down
Combines comb the fields
You’d mind us kindly once again,
for our good health, and the wealth
of the nations.
You mean … you’ll mine us,
ours will be the running sweat,
the burning toil to unshutter the breathing vents,
drain the dark shafts, pump the carrying oil, then
back to work with bright canaries
strapped to the buckling back.
We’d sing our bowed-head, whistling songs
underground in the damp earth of memories,
where we’ll again be wed
under the stars of your crosses and banners,
our dry roots will knot like twisted longtime lovers.
The grand old parents left seawards so long ago
taking the deep gold and crown diamonds
with them, and we were left, lonely
children in the wilds to fight it out
with dusty dingoes and the lion prides.
Now the proud, younger lords return
to exact their blood inheritance, tax free.
A century of tomorrow’s sunsets
will see the grandchildren abandoned
on these seething shores, again to kindle
fires against hungry tigers and slinking panthers.
Show us the canary.
On average it takes 8 minutes 20 seconds for light to travel between the sun and the earth.
At that very moment they look up into the sky
8 minutes and 20 seconds ago the journey had begun
The ray plays out its tale for all of them
Eyes stung by beads of sweat
The farmer squints into a cloudless sky
He smiles as once more he gazes on rows of sprouting new life
Oakley may dim her vision but she stirs
Beneath her towel sand has moulded to her sun-drenched form
Her fashionable hue is almost complete
He stumbles but struggles once more to his feet
How long has this desert ordeal endured?
The end beckons as searing heat prepares the feast
Shivering through winter in thin clothes and with an empty belly
Shafts of sunlight are rays of hope
A false dawn or a new beginning?
The newborn baby cries for attention
Her rosy skin has yellowed
But soon the status quo will be restored
Five lives touched at the same time
But not in the same way
8 minutes and 20 seconds ago it started again
It was a mild autumn day
far enough from summer’s heat
awaiting winter’s cold bite
The brilliant shafts of sunlight
ignited the vibrant colors
of autumn’s falling leaves
I watched them as they fell
tumbling down
all around me
Like outrageously large confetti
every color
from vivid scarlet to warm brown
I ran through the leaves
tossed them in the cool air
then sat amongst them on the ground
Autumn was here
a feeling of joy came upon me
a smile crept across my face
Haiku 50
wheat field bathed in gold
grain shafts, wind sways them all~
time for harvest in fall.
. . .
. . . . . .
.\ I /. .\ I /. .\ I /. \ \ \
\I/ \I/ \I/ \ \ \
\I/ \I/ \I/ l
I I I l
I I I a
----------------------
• • • • • • • • • • • m
w ~h ~e ~a ~t f ~i ~e ~l ~d b-a-t-h-e-d in g-o-l-d e
h
g-r-a-i-n s-h-a-f-t-s, w-i-n-d s ~w ~a ~y ~s t
t ~I ~m ~e f-o-r h-a-r-v-e-s-t in f-a-l-l.
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