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All of my images are © Hugh Stockton and may not be used for any purpose without prior written permission.

Few Morn


Think you that my love is crystal frail
Its death knell one High C
Or see it as I do - a Holy Grail
And endless as the sea
Unlike the sea it never ebbs or wanes
But ever fills and floods
And if my artistry should cause you pain
Its chemistry is blood....


Prose the darkened window
All things seen,
but dimly
Haiku the mirror


Making music in the morning
Often sounding like a lark
Cautious seldom in the daylight
Kin to hawk in bravery's spark
Intent to every creature passing
Need must all who do beware
Glaring all that heedless venture
Brashly fly at all who dare
Isn't nature strange in sight
Rage contained in gray and white
Dawn dividing song from fight


Sings the mockingbird.
Infinitely random,
Invitation to spring.


Much too near the fire and lifeless in its frantic pace
Vision shrouded in the mist an enigmatic second place
Enlightened sentience so we think perfectly aligned in space
Maligned in fiction peopled with a warlike race
Justly honored for its size sporting with a dancing host
Shattered remnants from the past tenuously line the circling ghost
Unknown secrets shielded from the passing race
Never known despite a glowing face
Perversely nearer sowing discontent for most

Home Prose Poetry Friends MISC

Florida Afternoon

Thunder grumbles in the distance,
Becoming more assertive as it nears,
Lightning flickers more intensely
As thought illuminating all our fears


Looking back at yesterday for clues about tomorrow...
Finding only subtle hints to minimize the sorrow...
The past a color photograph seen dimly through the distance...
The future infinite kaleidoscope undeniably insistent...

The photo fades with time..
And sometimes tears..
The present won't define..
But only nears..
The future planned sublime..
Engenders fears..

Sentience gilds the morning light…
Time obscures the past delight…
Tomorrow vast beyond our sight..

Fortune schools..
Chance rules..
Mostly fools...
Obey all rules...

The Past…
Only slightly less opaque than
The Future….

Bittersweet joy of creation......

I drink the wine that only eyes may drink* ,
And pause to think..
Seven tens of years to age this taste,
None left to waste..
Would there be as many left unspent,
A fool’s lament........

The future at the speed of time…
Smashing through the present to the past…
Oh well, we knew it couldn’t last.

*With apologies to Arnold Schonberg/Albert Giraud

In Passing

water laughs gaily down the hill
pebbles round
silently witnessed
cherished and amazingly complex
cosmic work
sentient pleasure