I love these little lights,
Small beams from scattered blue,
The dress of quiet daffodils,
In patient eyes a muse,
Caged fireflies in heights,
Above the weathered pews,
The steamy half forgetfullness,
That hangs off window views.

A bench there seated in the sky,
Has ripples over volumed clouds,
Entrance its prettied feet.

It is the near middle day,
And all the busted streams
Make burning shimmers to the cawing gulls.

To sit upon the clouds would like a dream,
Make blurry eyes at all the beauty of
Such deep and perfect mirrors but it is
too far from shore.

Misadventures by the flooded planes,
Come to grass-speckled mirrors golden,
In the waning noon so special and mundane,
Forget the rest, it is a blessed life!

As all good rainy mornings,
The sun is long slept in,
All lights make faeries in the shadows,
All patters timbre of the soul.

These here are truly precious streaks,
To glance upon the sandstone highs,
And speckle it with all this gold,
Just dripping from a latter light,
I would be such a fool if yet,
To pause beneath such hallowed sights:
These here are truly precious streaks,
To glance upon: be fixed upon.

Ov'saturated skies fall viscous through,
The shallows and the waning eve,
In mighty plays of colour and release,
All draws upon the end.

What gleams are these: my scattered lights,
In twinkles softly spoken as with care,
What holy things: my scattered lights,
In swell to fill with praises all the air.

Thick umbral rivers reverent in view,
Hold porcelain the even darling true,
They cower in the waxing candlebright,
Wedded to the horror of their change in light.

A filter through the thin bare trees,
Such morning bursts are bashful in the blue.
Takes up the dewy hills between,
And lays them sharply down in shadows flat.

The winking brightnesses draw long to filaments,
Then gathered like such golden wheat come silken threads,
To drape deep darkened mauve and rolling puddles of,
The heady shadows making perfect forms,
It is a silent frame of beauty in the dropping eves.

The eyes so kept in drooping shadow,
To fashion face from all this inking
Mess. The order from the scribble,
Oh working working at the face!
The untrained eye takes long to see,
All folds and manifolds to dine,
With the created thing creating things.

A magpie in familiar fields,
Such shakes of blue in wily blades,
Proposes little skips to seas beyond,
These ocean skies and pearly clouds,
Now fray to ichor on the breeze -
Young starlight rolling off their hems.

When all is pressing in, the hope,
Like trueflame triumphs over night,
My Lord who dwells in me makes flight,
Of all the shadows and the shades.

The beauty in a frame,
Which holds such spires aloft,
Starkly in morning lights,
All rush falls mute within,
And picks up silent friendliness.

The bellowed fog in open night,
Becomes unremarkable in the navy folds,
Buried in something thinner than shadows,
Something like the lonely sky.
For a friend, the eve is vacuous,
Though it truly is an eve within.

I forgot how much rain feels like my tears,
A little pools in melancholy on,
My lip and dreads to line my beard though stays.
It is a hazy tear on dreamy eves,
Caught in a flash of headlights Perlan tear,
All movement and so coming mist in brief,
Like iron wool and shards of glass at once.

The world is widened in the evening hoots,
The lights burst in their unreality,
Some pillars make fine men out for a smoke,
All flares and wraiths to dance under the veil,
Of closed up skies and such a dimming view,
"Why, we are strangers, aren't we too?"
"I suppose so... in this fine fading place."

The shallows of the shade,
Swim circles underfoot,
By root and jumbled sage,
Play mimes if cared to look,

Oh imitate the day,
By wake of bubbling brook,
And image as we pray,
A life in faithful foot.

At this the sky is truly opened up,
So fancifully thrown on yellow stones,
Held high upon the pillars of the day,
A drama and fanfare in stark sapphire.
Weighty purchases upon each corner,
All worlds to love her hearty laugh which spills
Such radiance on yellow stones arrest.

The moon in sheepish yellows,
Like a button pokes half through,
The swirling cloud become a garb,
The shadows drawing wisps into a hem,
I see the evening air is clothed,
That's good. The eves grow chilly as we slip,
Into the colder months.

Oh the misty way, begotten of stars,
Like some ephemeral silver, dancing.
The moon is hung somewhere obscure,
The peering stars are few between the clouds,
And the shadows lie still in deep ditches.
The air is so heavy that it's light,
Caught up in all this fuzzy floating,
Falls down to butterfly kisses on the ground,
It seems to hardly greet the grass.

In light absurdist stars,
On this fine frozen eve,
The winds are caught in trees,
So battered by the black-
-end grass and all the op-
-ened sky is starkly breath-
-less. . .

Lady Luna dressed in ocean robes,
It's foamy breakers frill the every fold,
Now lace then thickly new replace,
With marble ripples in the blue.

The sun is muddled in the glass,
Warm petals to the seated crowd,
And so the evening blooms,
Rose dipped in amber heats.

A wizened call on dusty winds,
Something of the soot of day falls heavily,
And all is silver roads and obsidian walls,
Dressed up in nocturne melodies, what grace!
It is a mystical thing to hear such songs,
Yet hardly parse their regal countenance.

A coliseum of trees looms regal and imposing,
Their give to slip within a breeze,
Their hands to hold each strand of fire,
Gold-laced and burdening the air,
Their sterness overleans into tranquility,
Bastions on the hills come watchmen of a gentry garden pool.

Severed shadows mastered masterless,
Splitting shades taste each opacity,
They come to six though truly one,
They move in sync though follow none,
More mute than rocks more deaf than trees,
And at the dimming lights I wonder if they're any less.

Violent winds and smokey skies,
Become a fated audience above,
The unmoved hills which fix themselves,
A sliver of the starlight for a coat.

At moment ceaseless drops take pause,
In time for all the whispers of the trees,
The sky too stills like unpolished marble,
I find in it a simple peace.

The golden eye's descent in awe,
To watch the swallowed world in black,
Becomes exalted tiger quieting,
The haze. Setting the limit of shadows,
Who will hold it fast? Who will stay its sight?
Who will draw the limit on its awe,
Blunt claws to make of it a watchman?
Surely there descends a greater gaze,
Commanding the deep hidden awe,
Subsuming every cosmic dance,
Transcending every light until it dwells in each.

The eve outside through open glass,
Casts light that's strangely blue,
A brightness that is not true bright,
That collapses into evening shadow,
That seems to dwell in the gaping crevasse,
Left over as the sky rolls day to night.

I find a kind of jolly light,
Which rolls amidst full clouds,
Which falls gently on every shade,
Of green upon the earth,
They fanning frame a hot pink rose,
A crowning jewel that begs a double take.

The full moon in withered beauty,
Upon the evening pales,
Becomes the sweetest anemone,
Drawn weakly from its flight,
The day remains in blue.

Cobbled walls made much in time,
A violet ring inscribes,
Laid still beside the grazing harts,
Which drift to long shadows,
The counterpoint to her white radiance.

Bloodied moon in amber flame,
That chokes upon the earthen crust,
That billows out grim radiance,
In orange-yellow hues bemused,
It is a weeping eye, it's crescent
Fallen lost below the spires.

The evening sun does lazy glance - a side
Glance dragging all the outside world through the
Old sagging glass, which through it brushes wide,
Into acrylic peaks and dimples painterly.

The world is washed in veiled light's malaise,
The shadows of a broad humanity,
Find archetypes so deep within a phrase,
An integrated loss beside a triumph lofty.

The spatter of a dying amber lines
The gold. And starkly in the setting sun,
A play, a dance of melody, the games,
Too dear to be confined to meagre words.

Encroaching silence with its legions of,
Thought. Myriad reflections surface at,
The falling heel, which strikes a muddy pool,
Draws into each speck every ounce of day,
But is undone and flitters as the light.

The sprawling city is in light and shadow,
Elevated pillars - pensive stonework,
Scar the valiant onslaught from the Sun,
Leaving pleasant trenches on the unturned tiles,
The heat of day at bay, though strangely sparse,
The people are elsewhere, and Hermes
Frozen in gold gives pause to his same quest and braves the heat.

On the evening grass, false stars transfix,
Make for static reverents in deep blue,
Clamour and old tumbling rush are quelled,
Pushed as a bad dream to the edges of thought,
Forgotten for a sweeter day cloaked in night,
For laughter and becoming nearer friends.

Tired familiarity deadens sight,
A subtle blindness to uproot,
Until all the vigour of the Sun,
Lines thick same bricks and stones,
With glory dampened over time.

Overbearing sun in directionless descent,
Is permeating, perpetrating, postulating:
A new rule of raw energy enthused,
A time share with a hollowed moon.

Radiant Luna established at the foot,
Of Sol's unmoving throne. Dressed in,
His fallen robes, the glory shared,
Pale Lady holding watch of night:
Ambassador and precious child,
Pulled up into the fragrance of the stars.

False star in intermittent red,
Lays up in friendship with the black,
Closer than the ancient flames,
Distant from a notion of true sight,
The chameleon unveils its eye,
To gaze upon the sleepy hills bellow,
Lazy fits itself upon the canvas of its seat,
A false star veiled in light come red.

My window to the sun,
Sheer radiance conformed,
To rush through truest edges,
To blaze a cubic beam,
Like unstopped water foaming in,
The shadows a lost vacancy now filled,
I am strangely tugged with warmth,
Not bottled back but ebbing,
With an ever-changing flow that leaves,
My matter buzzing back and forth instead of to lethargic fall.

Back to sleepy fields,
Yawning skies are greeting,
A quiet pause to yield,
A bright star though its fleeting,
Napping within pearly teeth,
It's lovely gaze to warm the hearts of men.

Dancing lights at the call of a haloed moon,
The chilly overheating, the sober headache and forgetting,
The staggering humanity lining the streets like cilia,
The night grows old and festers to its silent buzz,
Why are you hidden, pied piper?
Care to share your hideous beauty with the evening air?

Distant moon laid starkly on the blue,
Turning back its ever bearing forth,
Impotent strides fall deaf to pull it through,
The canvas of the sky with hollow mirth,
Turning back the same, running to the same,
It eludes thought to trounce upon the day.

Halted in their grand procession,
The embers of the day grow stiff,
Subsumed in dreadnought of unbending glass,
Which cradles flames at its own belly's seat,

Even in its flight, the passion of the day
Scorns bright topaz, rubies as if night,

A bright ruler of the dusk lit gold,
Becomes a herald and brief prince,
Faltered into royal red to bleed its fury
On unmoving bowels that face the stars.

Confronted with a lofty ray,
Tugging out all nascent life,
From buds and verdant fields afresh,
The air is elevated at its coming,
The golden hues so tender pull
The truest colours of the reeds,
And dance in robes of white on gentle streams.

Folding upon folds,
The grey turns frighteningly cold,
Falling from beyond,
Bright's crown to inevitably despond,
Paling light unflinching,
Descends in gradients unattended,
Without flame or flicker as a life,
But still and sterile as a thing.

Jagged puddles dress the pavement,
Sleeping in the valleys of cracking tiles,
Flattening their scattered angles in
Transparent films that trick the light.

Yearning for the stars,
These lofty lights imparted,
Wait for patient eyes -
Come into strength upstarted,
By awed reflections on,
The brighter till the lesser followed.

Grim-golden gates embroider hems of shadow,
The cavity laid slick upon the grass,
Receding up queer mottled stairs,
To hide from every fury of the stars.

The gentle shakes of sunlight,
Land impotent on a sleepy cobble,
Tinting blue within a breeze,
At once laid thickly golden on the lamp posts,
The path draws starkly by the trees,
Embellishing a history with passers-by upon their roots.

Late night march through mottled stone,
A world just hidden from the street,
Backing into shadow in its mighty flight,
From lighted pillars to the underbelly of grand arches.

The world in focus stirs the heart,
Each crystal edge fitted with the rays,
It gleans and litters on the street,
They light the tumbling colours of the crowds,
That bob along sandstone canals,
To see the morning light on ancient bricks,
To race the birds to fragrant soil and work the earth.

The golden silk upon the air,
Streams endless through a painted glass,
The world in sight is muffled in a breath,
Tired evening purged of raving farce,
The work is done.

Cold flames entwined in plastic leaves,
Alight in dance so strangely beautiful,
The still red globes and pulsing lights,
Lay on the air a contemplative silence.

Deeper nights sink into sandstone dips,
The kisses of the moon laid starkly,
On their weathered edge. To graft,
A piece of starlight into ancient arches,
Flourishes that linger- pretty permanence.

So much to fit into a day,
Yet now the zip is wound,
The packing done, away
With idle moment, in with work,
Each time in time and places,
Well, the places are a gracious perk,
High spires and mottled bricks,
Old wood illumuned with the rich
Glow of hidden lamps and metal tips.

The hum of lights in textured evening,
Tickling the leaves, dancing on beyond,
A humble stream. Not overbearing but,
Overcoming all rolls and folds of black,
That slink into the recesses of the night.

Scattered light shatters as the crystals do,
Right through the tiny slivers inbetween-
My fingers clasped upon the rays glow red-
Hot though they hold the chill of autumn air.

The crack of dawn pressed down upon my face,
Kissing me into a groggy waking,
For but a blink then I can freshly think,
Up starting now to face the newborne day.

I won't refrain from writing,
And other such litotes,
The sky is hardly dim,
But golden haze that bleeds into a lilac glow.

The trees are far from withered,
But instead a lively sight,
I scarcely consider this a shame,
Instead a weighty image of His might.

I feel the echoes of my people,
Rustling the idle grass in patient waves,
The light falls gently at the hour,
Drawing in the clouds to its descent,
Like robes of white and sashes to its lowered face,
Humbly now it hides its glory for the day,
Set firmly into dimmer shades refracted.

Colour vision arrayed in hidden rows and spirals
Deep behind void blackness in the eyes,
To hold the light so close and dearly
That it needn't grace again the world outside,
Now cast the land in colour so it drips
With hues and saturation overwhelming,
Turn the petals into memory
The clouds a comfort for the mind.

The greylight from the world outside,
Seems coldly blue in hue at least a little,
But in the greylight all the room's
Geometry is indecisively in shadow,
They've hidden away their colours now,
They give instead a peaceful slumbering,
They hide their fullness for the dawn.

Monochromacy in shades of brightness,
Fading seamless into palest dark,
The shadows meld with darker paint,
Stark whitewashed walls lean into light,
No chaos or mismatching things,
The colours frightened into line,
At the bark of undiscerning eyes.

The flicker of the flame,
Stands square on wicks wilting,
Throwing fire and passion to the walls,
Like flailed gestures to a balance,

A point marked in light,
Ever rolling into empty dark,
Ever bowing into pointed streaks,
Ever painting into deeper suns,

Some layered hues,
Arrayed in deepened harmony,
Marching roses to their daffodils,
Soon ruffled in the wind.

A boisterous crackle,
In a moment of unstable lurching,
In a moment placing down its brush,
In a moment humming to the flowers in the wind.

A wooded walk through half-lit night,
Cascading from the moon pale light,
Wrestles through charcoal smoke to sight,
It's bone white glow submerged in plight,
Then busting through again with might,
The moon makes charcoal dust and smoke
Like passing shadows beneath a pristine cloak.

The lights of far-off spaces,
Washing streets and steel fireplaces,
Dipping marbles in the hue,
Bringing out their winking blue,
Licking gold on bygone planets,
Washing out the slabs of granite,
The lights of far-off spaces,
Glow bright crown jewels of nature's faces,
These eyes and mirrors of glory beyond.

Beneath the stars,
The moon a speckled general in the sea,
Up seems weak to convey their heights,
They go beyond my reach,
Yet higher still I know the depths recede,
Beyond my comprehension firmly at the peak,
Till all the starry hosts are generals on the seas.

The light is intent on trickling through,
Despite the call to night from within,
The landing lights lie lazily from the cabinets to the carpet,
And the darkness banished with the slightest yawn.

The joy of bubbles rediscovered,
At popping and preserving: jubilation,
To look on perfect prisons suspended,
Holding in the melted colours,
Infusing them with curves and boundless roiling,
They seem to melt the light beside,
Entrancing it to bow and blend,
With colours 'till it paints the maelstrom with its brightness,
And halos the edge with specular shine.

Framed mirrors on the wall,
To turn the sight back into self,
To look behind and grasp reflection,
Framed mirrors on the wall,
Held up as windows into plain sight,
Left there on walls to behold later.

Light as water drips down the banister,
Rippling with moving shadows at my passing,
It pools beneath the lamps and seems to spray the stairs,
Never soaking, ever foaming,
A careful tide beside my jagged perch,
Ever high and never receding,
Flowing in yet filling not the floor,
I turn to scoop the flowing bright,
My hand is drenched in warmer pools,
Over there! Moving shadows at my passing.

The pale walls slow down and halt to gray,
In dimming lights they shed their hue,
And let it pool in churning shadows on the floor,
Some hold tight to wilting red,
They fall head long to deeper black,
And weave into the fabric pale,
Hung up to drip their colours down,
Down, down, entrenched in folds of night,
That swell but don't recede in falling eve,
And all is coloured grey and coal,
But shadows don't dare cast such fear,
For they roll now to whims of light.

Lighting up the stage with praise,
The room is wash in chromatic glows,
For all the praise and flashing lights,
We behold Him there our first delight.

I close my eyes and see the black,
Then formless patterns in the dark:
Great jagged lines and rolling hills,
From deep beyond my formless thought,
My mind a theatre of disrupted lines,
That play the fool in checkered falls,
That tumble into swarms of light,
That fray great epics into seconds,
They echo at attentions call:
Bygone, bygone.

I see the fireflies in the dark,
They crown the shadowed hill,
And gently glow the horizon,
It stands a wall to watch their flight,
A city dressed in light.

Travel by the street lamps fierce,
Through their white and saffron glows,
Deep into shadows, concrete folds,
Lightly over leaves and pebbles low,
Away away, I walk away,
Through darkened streets and shadows stray,
To stand in light and sing His praise,
With my people here in foreign lands.

A drop of red smears the sky,
And the blue is crushed to lavender,
The fragrance dancing at the precipice,
Constrained to sight amidst an amber flare,
The afterglow of day in rolling colours.

Hello brightness and wonder,
What is it to be joined at hip to flame?
And march out routes on blackened sea?
Maybe we'll talk some time from here.

Hello beauty from ashes,
What is it to be Son of my Lord?
To be His friend and servant too?
Maybe we'll talk some time from here.

Surely man walks a shadow in the day,
And cowers in dark places all the day long,
Yet you have made me a child of light,
And from darkness I am rent,
And to light I live with my Lord free.

I'm washed in lighted dark,
The neon signs do mark the sky,
And all the lights do clamour orange,
Above it all: the Pale Moon...
Glorious and pure in light splendid,
And the clamour is clear and rid beneath,
O holy one made known to me in whispers,
Has called to me in brilliant light,
That He alone stands pure and bright,
And all the lights beneath are simply noise and static.

Geometric shadows,
Glorious in asymmetry,
Dance about from lighting forth,
They clothe the walls in splendour,
And point back to the source.

The light trickles down from
Lamps to glasses framed,
Glow is dripping through my sight,
At once pure bright and ice!
As its caught in truth,
My sight is white,
The darkness stunned,
And as I walk it dims again.

My screen like blaring horns,
The light is brimming over,
Pouring out in rumbling rays,
My legs are drowned beneath,
And darker to my left they sit,
Like shadows to my right,
And front and back, the contrast!
Warped by blaring horns of light.

A barking dog punctuates the evening,
Textured chords on the flat darkness,
I saw the celestial assembly singing,
In silent praise they hummed last night,
Perhaps I'll see them bright again,
To what's ugly and begrimed lambasting,
To what's true and wholesome testifying,
Lord lift my mind to these heights of glory,
To see you there and return praising.

A mild beauty in the nighttime reflections,
Soft edges from the glowing walls,
More detail than my mind dare render,
All framed in window reflections small.

Shaded stairs,
A sharp beam of light clings to the edge,
Texture obscured in dimness,
And the white walls glow in a visual whisper,
Echoing the chorus of my phone screen,
The ascent to bed begins.

The darkness pools,
Shadows lapping at my shins,
They seem to wash away my waist,
And shiver beneath the dim screen light,
Receding from the slope of my arms, Just below my chin and up again,
My face and chest an island in the midnight ocean,
The darkness seems the rest on edge.

I look into the looming air,
I am so small beneath the expanse,
The dancing clouds seem full and fair,
Alight with golden rays that seem to make them swell.

Impulses in the descending black,
Like rifts of passion that tear through bleak shadows,
They hide in metal covers on the road,
The sit on lofty thrones above,
Their subjects dance on metal stools,
They sit like second eyes infront,
Bursting from our tin charger,
That likewise plunges into the night.

True sun,
Burning silent by the clouds,
Enshrouded in the fog and cumulus high,
I stare it in the eyes,
And shaded just enough,
I bare my gaze on its a few
Seconds and the line is snapped.
And looking down I feel its tap,
On my shoulders as it breaks,
Through the skyward net above.

Shining band,
Severs the carpet twain,
Castings glossy shadows to its sides,
Folding reflections with its dullest shades,
A demarcation for the flowing rooms,
To inscribe the flowing floors with resolute boundaries,
And split the carpet twain in glimmering style.

Mirrors in the muddy grass,
And your glory permeates the land,
The light hangs like pearls -
Drooping off the edges of leaves,
They seem burdened under the weight,
Yet hold it with pristine elegance,
And their brilliance warms the day,
Even on the ground you place glistening gems,
Catching wanding sunlight and storing it,
Resplendent on their gleaming heads,
The light falls gently now,
And the shadows seem brighter,
All the while your beauty triumphs in the dimming days.

A little light,
Flies still in my corner view,
Just barely peeking out from the cracked darkness,
It flies Southeast from a creeping split in the door frame,
And the light floods out from another's room,
Out into the heart of the quiet attic,
Where it flies still in my corner view.

Dusty rings,
Reach out to grasp the glowing filament,
Yet they are frozen in the strobing rays,
They flicker faster than the brain can run,
Spattering out bursts of light in the gaps of my optical refresh,
And the rings are held on golden whims,
Stretching out but never arriving,
So they sit there dusty, casting shade,
Shades we'll call them,
For shade they are.

The ray of light is sheered in two,
And scatters like a sparkler's bolts,
Over the edge of the gleaming orb,
That seems to warp slightly in softest slow,
And reveal a wild rotation underneath,
A shiny coin that turns head down,
Before tails flips from whence it left,
And back and forth they tumble,
Static in the air,
Yet chained to the palm beneath,
And with a tug of nature's grasp,
The gleaming coin falls down in spinning haste,
And falls face up to glare at the ceiling,
It's tail behind and hidden now,
On palms beneath.

Chaining stars,
Seem to string together in succession,
Forming a deep formation spanning the firmament,
They line the recesses of the local cosmic clusters like valiant halls,
And burn in concentrated power,
King's over domains bestowed,
Beyond them the invisible one presides,
Appreciating the beauty of his work still,
Let us join Him.

Light pings and flickers off the obscured glass,
As the flowing pattern wobbles across its surface,
Dancing around the reflection,
Telling myths about the reality behind.

It sits peacefully,
Hemmed in between the walls,
Gazing into the dark sky,
Peeking at the warm floor beside.

The light continues to glimmer and bounce off the warping pane.

The kitchen lights,
Shine brighter in dark nights,
Than warm days and gentle noons,
They beam and blast,
Great rays at the dark,
And seem to make the dark night small,
And hide in shadows cast.

Glowing lights adorn the tree across the road,
Exuberant fairies blinking in cold blues and warm oranges,
Its trunk flows seamlessly out from its roots,
And holds the little fairies with care.

A street light stands to attention,
Watching the cool streets with a fiery gaze,
It towers like a bastion,
Bearing the frigid darkness and halting its charge.

They seem to silently speak,
Their feet encased in the earth,
They remain still.