Let me hear the midnight cricket choir,
Leave fear and spite in the Beltane fire,
Come to still, cool water soon,
Under a pagan moon.

Baby moths like fresh, green leaves.
Grown up moths prefer sweater sleeves.
Many struggle for a life of ease.
I want something to believe.

Let me hear the midnight cricket choir,
Leave fear and spite in the Beltane fire,
Come to still, cool water soon,
Under a pagan moon.

Dark stream currents carry life itself.
Fire feeds the music in your muscle and blood.
Lost in his chant, a little elf collects faces in driftwood from the flood,
And waits to be in our dreams.
As the elf spins, magic drawings from his hat appear
That draw you in like passionate voices from a play.
Yet it’s only full of dream chasers on a flash lit stage,
Tragic actors on a burning page.
Hope, she would keep her wings in a black-swept sea
And dry them in a breeze of laughing stones.
T’was a still birth mother with her silence gone
Had to wade through the forest of my clanging song,
Though she smiled inside as she reached the sea
And said,
“So long to the boiling sun of my days.
I’ve already gone on,
Like the blind kiss of dawn,
Left in orbit when the moon rolls over and
Royal dreams walk like the escaping night,
Or, sometimes, lie like some cold cop’s chalk drawing on the ground
Around the failure of a love light or the victory of fright.”
Eerie eyesores assault your vision down on River Road.
You’ve heard of that road that’s paved with good intentions.
This looks like the end of that road.
My road has gypsy fiddles in a covered bridge.
Rains stream through ditches then you top the ridge.
A little Spanish girl loves my icicle coat,
Reflecting scenes around me in its crystal, hologram awakening
And cool dripping impermanence.
I asked the professor for a consciousness probe,
Where the dark star landed?
Meet the new wrinkle on the face of time,
The heart of gold dis-banded.
I asked the cab driver with a pleading sob,
“Turn off that Jesus station.
Fifty thousand watts and the power of God are such a noxious combination.”

Baby moths like fresh, green leaves.
Grown up moths prefer sweater sleeves.
Many struggle for a life of ease.
I want something to believe.

Let me hear the midnight cricket choir,
Leave fear and spite in the Beltane fire,
Come to still, cool water soon,
Under a pagan moon.