A Temple Long Ago

Lives shroud in dark silence,
lost to oblivion the names,
but forever live the memory
long ago.

The mirror of time, glass unbroken,
so many faces we've come to own,
while the feelings remain the token
of long ago.

Stoic temple, stones stern and cold,
perched high on misty mountaintop,
from where we cloaked ourselves
from the vagaries of life too grim
to behold- long, so long ago.

A lesson from the robins, nightingales
and owls who never shun the trees,
wildflowers who grace the meadows and moors,
the mantes, beetles and bees
unspoken, but purpose not forgotten:

Like a lotus in a stream,
like the magic of a dream,
in the hourglass we are the sand,
as the heart portrays the play
and the mind recalls the day
when life was long ago.

Copyright 2008 Francis Don Daniels

Autumn

In autumn when leaves are gold and rust
no longer green, stifled as by null, corrosive air,
aflame in burning hue of vitriol sky, I ponder
the scheme of life, the cycle of birth decay
and quietly recall old dreams once made.
Like fallen blades upon the earth were swept
away, wind-blown till out of reach and faded
with acid time.
But dreams unlike leaves need no season
to bear, no rain or sunbeams or ethereal air.
The soil from which they spring is neither clay
nor humus black-
but from a spiritual garden they seed,
even if earthly existence of mind decieve.

Copyright 2008 Francis Don Daniels