Watch Box

I saw my Grandpas watch today,
twas new in the rectangle box,
a large glass face reflected
round, like the eye of a morning fox.

It was the watch they wore, he said,
as they flew high over head,
from Germany to Bulgaria,
many hours over the land.

He thinks back to so long ago,
memories like coffee, at arms length,
or in this case, a curve of the wrist
is the only space one needs.

How the rings of time are spun
the memories shadows, and solitary ones
dance in the light of the aged mind,
the present is ere, the past holds the time.

Eye and the light

The years have crinkled the skin,
And the lips may sink in,
But the eye shines brightly yet,
With care and joy and whim.

The eye is but a reflection,
And the waters are warm with light,
And the surface so bright does shine,
In truth, and love and right.

Step back the fire is too white
And it matters not the content of the eye,
For a glorious light rules the earth,
Mist upon the mountains high.

Crystal

“Light is the shadow of God’s brightness, who is the light of light.”

 

There is a crystal in the center,

Behold! The glint, the shine,

it looms so high overhead,

so clear, a quality fine.

Perfect and pure the translucence,

it may be passed by unseen,

and the secrets that stream the lines

remain guised by transparency,

But, behold! It is there, in the cave!

The deep, the dark, the gloom,

whose ancient sand and craggy walls

house the ones that loom.

The sun pours down the same old way,

perhaps the light will glint,

and the present fire, whispering of

elephant stone tables, forgotten pyres,

is by the sunshine lit.

The arc of the sun is wide,

the water and air are bent,

the cave inlet also crests,

and words always echo stringent.

The cave is like a busy eye,

the crystal like a ball of light,

and a pull of the tiny star

could turn a day to night!