(written years ago, likely between 2000 and 2010) Beware This Land of Wicked Winds Beware this land of wicked winds, where the man of content will soon find himself a beggar, and the willing and good-natured worker will find himself a slave. Here, where the honest man is labeled a criminal, and the crooked man is honored amongst friends. The land is a forsaken wilderness since the time of Thoreau, though they call this land "Park".

(written years ago, likely between 2000 and 2010) Beware This Land of Wicked Winds Beware this land of wicked winds, where the man of content will soon find himself a beggar, and the willing and good-natured worker will find himself a slave. Here, where the honest man is labeled a criminal, and the crooked man is honored amongst friends. The land is a forsaken wilderness since the time of Thoreau, though they call this land "Park".

The Temple of the Sun The fallen court—the Temple of the Sun—Stands vast and solemn, its great rites undone.The dispossessed now wander through its halls,Where broken shafts lean near the crumbling walls. Its pilasters, with elegance, remain;Their beauty by the desert still sustained.Here slaves once burned in sacrificial flame,While chiefs with sword upheld the temple’s name.

The Temple of the Sun The fallen court—the Temple of the Sun—Stands vast and solemn, its great rites undone.The dispossessed now wander through its halls,Where broken shafts lean near the crumbling walls. Its pilasters, with elegance, remain;Their beauty by the desert still sustained.Here slaves once burned in sacrificial flame,While chiefs with sword upheld the temple’s name.

Buffalo Bill’s Mirage Buffalo Bill’s sharp memory fades,Yet dances alive where dead minds cascade.His six-gun hums in the ghost of a tune,Under a long-forgotten moon. The dust remembers what men forget,The gallop, the glare, the unpaid debt.Legends dissolve, but his echo stays—Riding the wind through history’s haze.

Buffalo Bill’s Mirage Buffalo Bill’s sharp memory fades,Yet dances alive where dead minds cascade.His six-gun hums in the ghost of a tune,Under a long-forgotten moon. The dust remembers what men forget,The gallop, the glare, the unpaid debt.Legends dissolve, but his echo stays—Riding the wind through history’s haze.

Sister Spirits The verse once loved the painting’s vivid hue,Together, shaping souls, creating new.Both born of nature, yet refined by mind,Their beauty soared, uplifting all mankind. But secrets slept beneath what critics say—Their world of grandeur crumbled into clay.Now shattered forms beneath the heavens lie,Their silence deep as wind that wanders by. Sister spirits—fragments yet on high,From ash, their quiet song shall pierce the sky.

Sister Spirits The verse once loved the painting’s vivid hue,Together, shaping souls, creating new.Both born of nature, yet refined by mind,Their beauty soared, uplifting all mankind. But secrets slept beneath what critics say—Their world of grandeur crumbled into clay.Now shattered forms beneath the heavens lie,Their silence deep as wind that wanders by. Sister spirits—fragments yet on high,From ash, their quiet song shall pierce the sky.

(March 2004) Lonely Heart A lonely heart beats slowly,Holding back its lifeblood from the body,Holding back the tears,Holding back the memoriesThat make the heart lonely. Wishing the memories would fade—If not to breathe again,Then to give up breath;If to cry again,Then to give up all tears;If to bleed again,And not to live again—

(March 2004) Lonely Heart A lonely heart beats slowly,Holding back its lifeblood from the body,Holding back the tears,Holding back the memoriesThat make the heart lonely. Wishing the memories would fade—If not to breathe again,Then to give up breath;If to cry again,Then to give up all tears;If to bleed again,And not to live again—

Scissor Gremlins I own ten thousand scissors,(Or nine—who keeps the score?)They vanish in the night-time mistAnd leave me wanting more! They giggle from the shadows’ edge,They snicker from the drawer—While I’m reduced to kitchen knives,Like some barbaric chore. I cut my yarn with butter blades,I poke my thumb in pain,And still those shiny silver fiends…

Scissor Gremlins I own ten thousand scissors,(Or nine—who keeps the score?)They vanish in the night-time mistAnd leave me wanting more! They giggle from the shadows’ edge,They snicker from the drawer—While I’m reduced to kitchen knives,Like some barbaric chore. I cut my yarn with butter blades,I poke my thumb in pain,And still those shiny silver fiends…

The Silent City Of all the marvels they had ever seen,None matched this splendor, risen from the green—A world once rich, of palace, gate, and street,Where nobles passed and armored guards would meet. A tide of luxury—its glory vast—Now hushed; its golden echoes from the past.Bright temples pointed upward to the sun,Their roofs aflame with gold when day begun.

The Silent City Of all the marvels they had ever seen,None matched this splendor, risen from the green—A world once rich, of palace, gate, and street,Where nobles passed and armored guards would meet. A tide of luxury—its glory vast—Now hushed; its golden echoes from the past.Bright temples pointed upward to the sun,Their roofs aflame with gold when day begun.

Meditation on the Mechanical Persistence of Life A lone heart beats slowly, without will,Its lifeblood withheld, its rhythm spare.The body moves, but all within is still—An echo trapped in unremembered air. It holds its tears as though they might restoreA world already vanished, pale, and cold.Each memory, a wound it can’t ignore,Each pulse, a tolling bell for what grows old.

Meditation on the Mechanical Persistence of Life A lone heart beats slowly, without will,Its lifeblood withheld, its rhythm spare.The body moves, but all within is still—An echo trapped in unremembered air. It holds its tears as though they might restoreA world already vanished, pale, and cold.Each memory, a wound it can’t ignore,Each pulse, a tolling bell for what grows old.

Love Lost and Yearning A lonesome heart beats softly in the chest,Its rhythm beating names the mind forgot.Each pulse recalls the warmth that once caressed,Each silence mourns the echo that is not. It holds its breath, afraid to break the dream,Afraid to weep, lest memory awake—For love once flowed like sunlight on a stream,And left behind the shimmer of its wake.

Love Lost and Yearning A lonesome heart beats softly in the chest,Its rhythm beating names the mind forgot.Each pulse recalls the warmth that once caressed,Each silence mourns the echo that is not. It holds its breath, afraid to break the dream,Afraid to weep, lest memory awake—For love once flowed like sunlight on a stream,And left behind the shimmer of its wake.

Late Autumnlast persimmon fallsfrom the twisted orchard limb—nobody to catch

Late Autumnlast persimmon fallsfrom the twisted orchard limb—nobody to catch

The Warrior, Poet, Sage The warrior, poet, sage—here all are shown,Their likeness carved, their legacy made known.When dawn first broke, the poet’s voice arose,The painter’s light in living color glows. The sculptor’s hand from marble shapes the soul,Each art a flame that makes the spirit whole.Born of the earth, yet tempered by the mind,They leave immortal beauty for mankind.

The Warrior, Poet, Sage The warrior, poet, sage—here all are shown,Their likeness carved, their legacy made known.When dawn first broke, the poet’s voice arose,The painter’s light in living color glows. The sculptor’s hand from marble shapes the soul,Each art a flame that makes the spirit whole.Born of the earth, yet tempered by the mind,They leave immortal beauty for mankind.

In the beginning, when the void was still,before the rivers had names, before dawn grew teeth,She walked alone through the unbraided dark.before the rains dreamed of falling,the Creator stood on the rim—a place where nothing yet knew her. From her cupped hands came breath—so deep it stirred the roots of time.Planets woke like sleeping stones;

In the beginning, when the void was still,before the rivers had names, before dawn grew teeth,She walked alone through the unbraided dark.before the rains dreamed of falling,the Creator stood on the rim—a place where nothing yet knew her. From her cupped hands came breath—so deep it stirred the roots of time.Planets woke like sleeping stones;

The Turning Heart I rise with hope, I rise with light,I rise from ashes into sight.Through storm, through flame, through bitter art—I rise to mend the broken heart. To love, to lose, to learn, to yearn,To wander paths that twist and turn,To dream without, to dwell within,To break, to heal, to end, begin. The more I give, the more I gain,