To The Back of Beyond

Nothing will happen to you;
no harm will come.
Nothing you have to do
That I haven't already done.

Just take my hand
and close your eyes.
Smile, that you might
not cry.

I want to take you
to the ends of the earth;
to the back of beyond.

Where there are no limits,
where laws of gravity
and laws in general
are mere words.

Come with me to where
the grass dances freely
and the flowers smile at you.

We've seen too much decay,
destruction and death
for our hearts to be
troubled anew.

This is the back of beyond,
where we renew,
rejuvenate and restore.

This is a place
I wish we could stay
forevermore.

At least until you
feel the yank
of this weary sphere.

Never fear.
The back of beyond
is always here.

MIGHTY MEN OF NEWS

Gone are the Murrows

The Cronkites and the Hollenbecks.

Absent are the Garroways,

Huntleys, Brinkleys.

Ditto the Chancellors and Brokaws.

Never to return are the

Reasoners, Jenningses and Downses.

These Mighty Men of News,

Who disturbed the air and

Chiseled stone

In the Discharge of

Their sacred and Holy Duty.

In their place

Are skywriters.

The void of Information

Is filled by Complaint,

Debate and Spite.

Men who used to speak

Are replaced by men

Who scream and shout.

Our televisions are now

But wires and lights

In a box

Failing to maintain a spark.

And I weep

For what we

Have become.

JOUST

In a dank and deserted castle
Under a steel grey sky
There is a fight
Between two knights.

One wears black.
The other sports white.
The soul of a man awaits
The winner of the fight.

The white knight
Represents all
That is good and sweet,
Joyful and right.

And the man in black,
Always on the attack
With a sword sharper
Than the toughest tack.

The castle they fight in,
The soul they fight for,
Is inside the man
Moving this pen.

The battle never ends.
The fight goes ever on.
No truces are called for;
No judge to say who won.

I think every one has
A castle worth fighting for.

There’s a white and a black
Knight inside everyone.

It’s a truth that’s hard
To ignore.

Bookstore

Poking through a bookstore,

Wondering which book

To behold

And buy.

Envious of the authors

Who get it all down

Before the parade

Passes by.

They must lead rich

And full and creative

Lives.

The magic in their pages

Pierces my heart

Like tiny knives.

Knowing I could jump

Into any story

I wanted to

Leaves me breathless

Dizzy and agog.

It’s true.

Such a tough decision—

Which book is

The best?

Who’s got more magic

In their words

Than the rest?

Such mystery and

Majesty and magic

Await.

At the bookstore.

If the prices aren’t

Too great.

Sunday Night

Measuring

All of the breaths

I take.

One after the other.

Savoring them,

Making them last.

Wishing time

Would draw itself

Out.

Staving off

The inevitable dread.

Knowing that people

Will be scowling

At me

When I return

To the breathless world

First thing Monday morning.

Softly

Softly I awaken to

the tinkling nocturnes of Chopin.

Softly I am licked and nuzzled

by my lovely kittycat.

Gentle and warm is the water

on my back and in my face.

So, too, is the cotton

of my clothes.

Soft is the kind of

music I listen to,

and the voices I want

to hear.

First thing in the morning,

everything is soft,

until I join the rest

of this hard world.