I, Firefly

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The rain and cruel night wind have stilled

And sleep on dreary darkling clouds.

Weeping leaves shed heavy tears,

That strike the pond’s still black water

Like clock ticks of drunken Time,

And floating withered autumn leaves

Scurry from the watery craters.


There beyond in wet woodlands

Sodden birds tremble in the night

And unseen voles flee starving shrews

‘Til frighted darkness flees the light.

The chorus of the night sounds clear

Yet each voice sings a solo song

in a different tongue but all proclaim


That to listen is not to hear;

And what’s unseen is not unreal;

In a bright flashlight beam,

As thick drops strike black still water

They  fire off a flash to declare

With prideful human vanity

“My reflected light’s eternal.”

Stone’s Child

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Dust from the graves of time-dead stars

waits in the magma of a planetary core,

is delivered of earth’s molten womb

against the  will of a  jealous gravity,


unaware it’s only inert stone,

as blind and dumb as dirt,

but wonders why things sing and weep,

on a rock whirling between infinities.


A  sculptor imagines stone’s child

can be chiseled free to take part

in a conversation about eternity

among mortal children of mortal stars.                    



First Rain

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Rooftop rain wakes me from a dream.
A thirsty land is suckled by the storm.
An open window inhales sweet breath
of Winter snow and silver Summer stream.

I rush to save sun-faded cushions
that fear the stain of dank black mold;
and return again to indoor light,
chilled by October’s sudden cold.

Our little dog peers from her lair,
moves only eyes in pet disdain
for forays into night wet air
long before dawn’s duties call.

I feel I must explain:

“We come; we go; like everything we know.
We dreaming dreamers dream
among the galaxies that blow
through time and place and space.

“We’re twins, you and I.
Born hungry, blind, and dumb,
We learn and grow and become,
but never see the years run by.

“What are we now, old girl?
Each instant was forever at our birth;
Then years shrink and fade like proven truth,
and now we dream at the edge of eternity.”

“Nonsense!” she snorts. “Enough!
Sleep, old liar; be still!”
Again my little dog barks outraged
that I talk while no one speaks to me.

Silly looking, but complex and wise,
She turns away with poodle sigh,
head down, with tight closed eyes,
shuts out the noise of rain,
and time, and humankind.

Stone’s Child

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 Dust from the graves of time-dead stars

congeals within the magma of a planetary core,

Is delivered of  a  molten womb

against the will of   jealous gravity,

devolved from star-dust to  stone.


The child of stone is born blind, dumb,

and helpless as star-dust, yet asks why

we sing and weep, find and lose  one another

on a rock whirling between the poles of infinity.


The sculptor seeks whatever hides within the stone,

aware that  only what’s  unseen is real.

Stone’s child knows that nothing  real

can be confined within our universe and  time.

Under the Tree of Knowledge

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Extruded from a socialist womb,

One becomes separately alive,

Sweats at the fount of mother-milk

in the endless struggle
to survive;

One invades the mortal’s world

To find what truth we can

Of fragile human goodness

And love for other than

the Self,

One fears food, shelter, and justice,

are private and political property,

Sought and bought with things

or subtle lovely lies and bartered

Yet with pluck and luck perhaps,

One finds transient pleasures

Among the shards of gathered,

Baubles, troubles and other

Suffering threats from a million gods,

painful errors, regrets, and strife

in the silence of the universe

One may question and fear life

One may at last discover,

within each being, object, truth,

we only live within each Other

And Each is is just another

Each inanimate or living thing

Waits and wonders here on earth

What life or time may bring

To those who hear siren song

of the Multiverse.