Old Poetry

In the interests of posting something....
This is really old...mine.
I was so intense. I won't post the really bad stuff, it's too ineptly derivitive of Bob Dylan and Bruce Cockburn! Or worse.

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There is a knowing anguish
in his manner;
consciously manipulated
in his many facial portraits.
His fingers move crippled
through his hair like broken stems,
reflecting tragedy, while
the mask below contrives comic relief.

- circa 1974

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Your guitar is the moon
In your fingers.
Your music not played,
But devoured.
And I helplessly listen
In rapture,
Moving rhythmically
In nervous jealousy.

- circa 1974

- - - - - - -- -

I have seen the mocking lights
forever gliding through rotten snow
red and white
shadows on blackened walls.
Waiting at my window
thinking it is raining
but it is not.

I have seen the cautious eyes
searching the concrete, but not with me.
They say that songs
are not like real life.
Waiting at my window
not seeing the days through -
it’s not so.

I have seen the Silent Night
and baptized it with my own eyes.
I have watched the Light
go out with day.
Waiting at my window
for the return of One
who did not.

- circa 1974

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Sunlight

Sunlight through the trees
Sprinkling on the lawn
Shattered glass
Forever falling
In glittering silence.

- circa 1971