Unchanging, a fiction

Monuments turn to ruins
Each chiseled stone covered
with weeds, woven
in time, nature always triumphs
its children grounded
for breaking curfew

Cities rise, thrive, fall, rot
under a Sun that
in time
fade into quiet insignificance

Earth, unchanging
a fiction
for Time plays its
symphony not for humans
its notes too few and deep
in a lifetime.

The Wild weaves its throne

The towering cliffs flinch;
When the waves crash upon them, grasping;
For they know that none;
Can resist the sea;

Elegant furrows, living in a paradise;
Of perfect order;
A hundred thousand seasons pass;
The plows crumble;
Into feeble rust;
And the Wild weaves its throne from;
Vines and moss once-shunned as chaotic;
And imperfect;

This Earth is not a sphere of glass;
Where every shape is kept in stasis;
The world is built;
To be destroyed- it is alive;
And nature is its blood.

Here I stand [poem]

Here I stand;
As saplings flap and dance in speckled light;
Then grow coarse and woody;
And become the blue-gray sentinels that watch, silent;

Here I stand;
As the cliffside smarts;
When the salted fists crash against its rocky skin;
And the crags wear smooth;
Reaching old age as but pebbles;

Here I stand;
As the old mill, long closed and shuttered;
Creaks and groans in a crescendo;
Consumed by a creeping rust, until nothing remains;

Here I stand;
As the stars extinguish, one by one;
The sky grows unfamiliar;
All that has is gone and done;
And yet, here I stand;