Whither goes that mystic

and does it yet live

An article waxing cryptic

with no wisdom left to give

No seas are left to cross

No new frontiers to find

Static now, growing moss

Those shining eyes grown blind

The days pass, growing late

These shadows grow long

The bliss they meant to create

is now all going wrong

For those left who still believe

should not trust to hope

Rather we can only grieve

the slow death on slippery slope

So rife with subtleties

with every move and gesture

Such cruelties do abound

If only you could grasp the nuance

like members in good standing

Not about money

Not about fame

We all know its about

everyone thinking the same

Chicken shit conformists

all hail the sacred cow

After desert years

lost in searing sands

Now no longer recall

the time before the rains

The wise men who led

down to water’s edge

All find the high ground

when the levees break

They’ve shed their robes

Their myths debased

They curse the heavens

as their temples dissolve

Summer skies of Athens, ’74

We were children

walking in a realm of firsts

We joined the ranks

of civilized world, idle dreamers

Our troubles superficial

mostly of our own making

These are but phantoms

unseen in adolescent fervor

Still we find these in later years

while we search for skies

that will not return to us

Saturday morning

in unfamiliar air

Before dispassionate onlookers

foul the streets

A man out of place

Refugee or renegade

Lost in the crowd

before they’ve arrived

Faded blue, King’s Bay Fire and Rescue

Too many years in the sun

Shoulder length, color of low tide

He contemplates

that final leap into traffic

for the next day’s paper