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Corridors of Horror

Fire & Stars



Night Wind

The One That Got Away


Fire & Stars


Opus 27190

24 MARCH 2014

Sparks rise with crackling smoke

in circled spirals through the pines, 

the glowing warmth of burning logs

warming hands and feet beside the stone ring.

With eyes it looks upward,

he the maker of the thing,

to contemplate the night,

to speak with it within its midst,

while birds around are sleeping,

and glowing eyes prowl forest spaces.

What hour of night is it?

Where is the Sun on its last and next horizon?

Where is the Moon?

Up there, where races in the Wind

a trail of broken reuniting cloud,

the Universe lies hidden, by vapors of the Earth obscured.

He knows it.

He traces in the dirt with nearby branch a rune,

recognition to the Air, the Earth, the Genius,

a companionship and an admiration.



Opus 27259

12 JULY 2014

Old memories from ancient times,

before the mind, before man,

rekindled in sparks and smoke,

the primal crackling

that calls deeds we know not of;

great momentous, villainous, terrible; 

and there for sense, perception.

Strike the match, gather kindling

within the circles of stones.

Up into the trees it goes, 

among those still living, standing,

to address the stars and night,

of man's half-conscious hand.



Opus 27770

26 September 2015

Two fish—of good size


Legal size!

One perch—one trout,

lying side-by-side.

The knife is taken,

to gut the first.

The point touches.

It jumps—back into the river.

Not dead!

It swims away!


Ten minutes out of water, maybe fifteen!

And there it goes!

Well, at least the trout is left.

That stays dead.

Better than nothing.

The perch, hook removed, 

gets to live out its short life.

The one that got away is pictured on the left.




The night wind on its singing courses

clacks the boughs and trees together

in the dark of hazy settles

through the length of mountain forest.


Patterns on the forest floor,

the leave and rocks, the wooden roof

above the lodger listening aptly

as the mists and winds play


As the dark of morning rises

still encased in shadowed vapors

waters flow from sky to brook

and wind in voices combs the land.


Gentle rustles of he birches,

piercing song that plays through spruces,

sounds the Earth its vapored humors

in the woods of dripping waters.

The One That Got Away
Night Wind
27103 Moonlight Keene Valley.jpg

Opus 27988

8/9 June 2016


Night Wind that roams the Mountains,
playing forests over cliffs
as it circles the ancient granite region.

Sighing through the boughs of spruces,

choruses in the counterpoint

sing lines and chords of hidden message.

In the shadows, dark, unseen

the spirit sings its broad cantatas

telling more profundities.

Beauty of the orchestra

takes rounds of journeys through the land

in passages of arcane language.


Opus 28037

12 July 2016


Pounded into me the Mountain,

grain by grain to crystalizing

so that I upon descending

have a granite rock within me.

New, a man with different minds,

the trail I walk beneath my feet

is me, the same, identifying.

Winds above, and clouds in racing, 

sing my humors gained from Nature.

As the arc of sun is passing

and the house speak their colors,

clouds among the highest rocks

congeal in layers full of moisture.

What the Butterfly in standing

tells me of its explorations

seats within my inner conscious,

there to open in my dreams.

Corridors of Horror


Opus 26543

11 December 2012

Corridors of horror

man leaves behind his wake.

Place gone and travels taken

to criss-cross  the whole round of the planet

with miasmas of lurking shadow

and places that the plants will not grow.

Rivers of blood still oozing through petrification,

suspended clouds of everlasting screams,

these upon the Earth are inflicted,

sweet Mother Earth,

wise Mentor Earth,

to make It groan through Its deepest hollows

at what She has had to bear.

Places we make, we things with arms and feet,

that chill a passing person with unnamed terror,

where the clouds of the dead blot out Sunlight,

casting the land to a hollow of lamentation.

Hardly has this ambulant race

inflicted malice beyond his capacity

to make the Planet ominous,

a specially dreaded quarter

in the Solar System and the Galaxy.

Telescopes cannot see the background malice,

nor can man at close distance.

And yet, of all we've seen,

the worst come later is unimaginably greater.

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