there are times
when the music never seems to drown my thoughts.
when the silence is not enough to clear my head.
when words are not enough to comfort a grieving heart.

without knowing absence

the child will not learn speech.

the pain of loss,provokes

the need for symbols.

is it true,that we need loss

as much as gain?

To be still in mourning
but I take off my long-sleeves shirt
It's the beginning of summer

(Oral Japanese)
Akenu mo no
syatsu wo nugitaru
hakusyo kana
----------------------------------

Black of wing, night did call

Pitching stars, midnight falls

Opulent moon of ebony seas

Bathing silence in luminaries

Shadows twisting in the light

You play on the clarinet;

I play my old cello.

Your music is so poignant;

My music is mellow.

I can't play from your music;

You cannot play from mine.

Our music must be transposed,

A golden urn unearthed this day

Hieroglyphics where angels pray

Bumblebees etched into tablets

Light into visions of time ecstatic

Fabric lit in the spectrum of suns

I thought you once wrote me a poem,

But I can't find any poetry here.

Please send me another poem

If you have the time, my dear.

You sent me love at Christmas time

In a harp’s song, the strings flow

Pulling at moments, to gently go

Beyond the last note, light as air

Tumbling thoughts without care

Seeking time to abandon matter

In the darkness of the night,
a camp fire glows,yellow, orange,bright,
around it sit people who we now describe,
as together,having formed a tribe,
and as they roast their latest kill,

She plucked four stones from the sea

Into her white apron stars fell silently

Wet stones, polished in black storms

Barefoot she pressed into time forlorn

Gracious provider,
Of love, life and adventure,
Divine designer.

Copyright  ⓒ  Chris Ryall  2012

A sound as of a baseball bat
striking a cardboard box

Then… sudden silence
Cold and dry

A white car receding into the distance
A numbness creeping into my leg and thigh

Sound of gravel crunching
On a lonely country lane
Then parking neath an ol’ Oak Tree

Radio softly playing
An ol’ George Jones song
Of broken hearts and misery

Then, hypnotic rise,

From the sky behind a rainbow
From the sweat of a farmers elbow
From the green of the tree
From the middle of a sea

A bigger existence declares its presence
And whispers

I hear the rain beating upon the roof
As dozing in bed I lie,
Outside I hear the wet tire sounds
Of cars on the road passing by.
Part of me sees where else the rain falls,

The air is spare, no cost, no fare,
There is no fee for the sea you see,
And the stream does seem to teem with fish,
Which end up on one's dinner dish.

Yet you say to me, "ain't no deity,"

I'd like the moon tonight.
Please?

Throw a lasso around it
and just pull.

Bring him on down.

I want to feel him. Full.
And real.
Like I dream of him.

His honey laden breath.

My old blue fountain pen allows
The ink across the page to flow
Like wet paint from an artist's brush;
And words come in a rush.

Disappointment is like a fine tooth comb
The human condition, like lice infestation
In their gestation, our humiliation itching
To find a way to annihilate embarrassment

Kathy Paysen 2012

Pulling Weeds

I know not why, but pulling weeds
somehow serves my inner needs.
Amid the backyard jets and flots,
the earth, the weeds, my quiet thoughts.
What draws me there again, again?