Tuesday, February 7, 2012



We ply the old trade,
and wandering from one far place
to another down
the stream of true song,
we seek to find love's turned key
in the locks of life.

The dream child dances
beside the bed we have made
for our hope, where we
lie down in moonlight
after the last song is sung,
after the smith has
banked back all the fire.

February 28, 2010 10:01 AM


  1. Christopher, thank you for breaking my latest dry spell. It's so sweet when the rain comes.


    My lute cracked
    when I saw the memory
    of your beloved face
    echoed in the river.
    She still plays the same old songs,
    but now with a rasp,
    a smoke-and-gravel hue
    like the grief of flamenco.

    Our dream child
    is a tattered maid now, her lullaby
    twisted by our fate
    as a basket-weaver binds the rushes
    that grow along the riverbank
    in weeping, boggy strips,
    the low lament
    of the SoleĆ”.


The chicken crossed the road. That's poultry in motion.

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