The Old Familiar

In the night, in the darkness,
the old familiar steals around.
Emerging from corners of my room,
from the stillness and shadows
is a sad repository of memories
I can count on always to cheat
me of comfort and sweet sleep.

 –

Autumn - its magnificence and spell-binding colors

found even along a stretch of country road.

lark's call

after a lark's call
silence amid
the deepening snow


.

Brittle Leaves

It's a difficult thing, admitting we've
grown too old, no longer denying the truth
and staring deep into our mortality which
until now we've not wanted to accept.
In those flourishing days of our youth
we often felt as if we could outgrow
our skins, but now we feel as if we are
shrinking too far into aging, grey husks,
finally seeing how we're at the autumn
of our lives while it gathers around us
as brittle leaves swirling about a lamppost.

--

The Painter

If only he could paint what he feels
deep within, and not just what he sees,
his paintings would be transcendent.
But anymore, what he feels is elusive, hidden
somewhere beyond the descriptive,
beyond the stroke of his brush and the
complexities of his paint, beyond his ability
to put emotion and insight to canvas.

He's begun to question himself,
no longer the confident painter but now
far too introspective and unsure of his talent,
a talent that used to reveal itself with flare,
color and a successful style. Melancholy
has set in, frustrating any attempts
to get beyond the feeling of hopelessness.

Someone who would never equate
himself with the great painters, knowing
the limits of his own talent, he
nevertheless wonders, could this
be how Van Gogh felt in his despair?

--

snow against the window

softness of snow
against the window –
her kiss brushing by

.

snared by frost

winter morning –
an abandoned spider web
snared by frost

.