By Barry Howard

What were Newton’s
Matter not
I float, I fly
Old laws can rot
What were anchors
Never true
Kant the fool
I’ll kill him too

What were truths
Mirage at best
One mind, one mouth
Both false behest

What were mine
Not half a chance
Dreams and visions
Circumstance

When held the cherished
Words above
Will sorrow find
Her greatest love

Grand words can shape
Most any thought
But truth be found
If truth be sought

Rushing Wind

Faster blows the wind these nights
Racing by my collective being
Forcing me to perceive smaller, smaller
And ever smaller chunks of moments
Chronos guideposts whiz by like dragons
Shortened summers, once endless,
Unsweetened by moving frames
Seem fleeting in the relativity

Rip Van Winkle when I sleep
Dorian Gray in my waking hours
Nothing slows the frantic pace
The tempo of this violent breeze

Rushing wind shorten your steps!