In the Midst of Darkness

Where do the stars find rest
When all the world is restless?
When all is black and what was best
Is lost to what’s relentless;
When the next step in the quest
Seems to be continuing on questless?

When you are lost to darkness
And you can’t remember sunshine,
When even stars’ gentle brightness
Seems gone for all of time —
Ask yourself where their rest is…
And realize you’ll be fine.

The Lost Rider

There once was a rider
Upon a white hill,
Taking his time
To do what he will.

His horse pranced about
And whinnied and neighed
And the rider realized
Too long had he stayed.

The hill, it turned black;
The darkness became
All he could see,
And naught he could tame.

And he wandered about
Till lo! on his reins
He found a little kind hand,
And a little voice came

And told him at last
He was no more alone:
He had a friend,
Who would guide his way home.

Things That Go Bump In the Night

1 AM, 2 AM, 3 AM fears:
Is that a voice that I’m hearing,
Come from downstairs?
Just the A.C.? The clock?
Or perhaps it’s my brother.
Or is the back door unlocked,
And it’s really something other?

Maybe it’s the dogs,
Barking next door;
Maybe it’s the neighbors,
On their back porch.
Maybe it’s the wind,
Howling in the distance;
Or maybe it is robbers,
Marauding in the kitchen.


Will likely be absent this week. My sister is going to be gone for a few months starting the end of the week, and I’m hoping to spend a little time with her: Go on a few walks, maybe rope her into playing a game of Rummy with me. Things best done when not half asleep… lest she win. But, I haven’t been doing very well with time management lately… So, I’m going to bed (*cough cough*) “early” (I’m pretty sure my definition of that word is a little skewed); which, since late night is unfortunately when I do most of my blogging, that (i.e. blogging and the time vortex that is blogging related things) may very well take the back seat for a couple days.


It’s a night I wish the moon was shining;
I wish I could walk beneath the stars,
And look up, and know
There’s more than this little life of ours.

It’s a night that I’ve spent crying.
I wish I would cry more:
Every tear is an anguish let go,
A flood finally let out the door.

It’s a night of almost hopeful feeling.
I wish I always kept these stars:
The sunlight never moves me so,
When peeking through glass bars.

Night Owl

Are you counting the minutes;
The minutes ’til I sleep?
I don’t mean to keep you awake
But to you I cannot speak
I can’t burden you with this
Except in greatest need
So I talk it over with myself
Long after you try to sleep.

Luna and Sol

Daylight tells not of the night,
But gently burns away what came before
Until you can only think about the light
And how it must have been a dream,
Those burdens that you bore.

But the moon, she is a gossip,
With teasing whispers in your ear:
Words that should have passed your lips,
Replaced instead by silent screams
And a divination that all you’ll ever know is fear.

A Tavern In Transylvania

It was after dark when they arrived,
And the whispers followed soon;
Three strangers on a gloomy night —
The night of a full moon.
Dressed in coats and wide-brimmed hats;
Quiet, watchful, grim.
Were they werewolves on the prowl
Or robbers on the lam?
Outside it stormed and thundered;
Inside, plates and tankards clattered.
A wary look, a quiet joke;
Laughter here and there scattered.
The three continued watching;
The rest continued waiting.
The air grew stiff and quiet:
How long would they be staying?
Another man enters the room:
A gentleman quite mellow.
The three disown their seats
And walk over toward the fellow.

But they encounter in their way
A man who’s had enough —
Of drink, and mysterious ways,
And demands answers with a puff.
The three try to explain:
Vampire hunters, so they say.
They’ve tracked him a long while:
That “gentleman” is their prey.
The fellow rises in protest
And cries out in indignation!
Surely he won’t be consigned
To death and mutilation?

The man assents, not today
And rests his hand upon his gun;
Who’s to say the three are not
The real blood-sucking ones?
Murmurs ripple all around:
Superstitions and suspicions;
Then the lights flicker out,
And all’s frantic and vicious.
Pistols, unholstered, are shot blind;
Knives are slashed in fear.
The lights come on again
To a bath of blood and beer.
The gentleman, through it all unscathed,
Makes sure to thank his dying savior;
And note the taste of all this blood
Is something that he’ll savor.