Sunrise

born again each morning
wildflowers
drink the dew

in the silence of  the dawning
when most all the world
is sleeping

there is a song softly playing
heard only by the heart

 

Propensity for Ascension

Tags

ascension, blues, brass, fate, intervention, jazz, streetlamps

Dusky angels
mirror their regrets
in moonless pleasure
Neon lights
and street lamps
smolder promises
of oblivion
Brass notes wail
and rise then fade
She  waits for fate
to make an intervention
In this blue hazed room
seems only smoke rings
have a propensity
for ascension

Knowing

I could not see the breeze
but I saw the curtains’
graceful fluttering,

I see the flowers
and trees,   and know
the sun will rise again,

Even without
       the without
there is always the within.

 

Unconditional

Tags

Autumn, bloom, faith, love, season, trees

The sun still shines.
Even at a slant it gives warmth
and light. It’s true, the buds have burst,
the blossoms bloomed out full,
the beauty faded, but underground
there’s the promise of return.

Ash and oak and spreading chestnut,
the maples most exuberant;
they know the drill,  know
the disappointment of shady canopy
stripped bare, They do not quit
nor do they slink away to shadow.

Even the fragile ferns bend
to the wind and praise the tempest
for the spores it spreads,
and the silver brook still gurgles
though the season of freeze
will have its way with it.

Each winter it looks as if the roses
are gone forever; each spring
they bloom again. To everything
there is a season. Whether we believe
or not, they will return.  Such
is the love of our Creator.

Whitman and Keats in my Backyard

Tags

beauty, bloom, Keats, Lilacs, mask, swan, Whitman

The last lilac still blooming
hugs the house, hoping for warmth
to save it from the weather,
but beauty fades.

No! That is not so,
only the bloom fades: the bloom
that blinds us to the truth, the mask
that hides the deeper flaws.

Roots grow deep to last
through all the seasons, its sweet perfume
lingers through the winter though blossoms
fall in silent splendor .

When branches lose their  heart shaped leaves
there is a beauty in the natural sculpture,
Spent of bloom,
the tree becomes a swan.

To Touch the Sun

Leaving the haven of dark corners,
stepping timidly from shadows
to travel treacherous paths
in search of sun beyond the tempest,

For this second all is still,
The sky, as yet is undecided,
Dark with frown, it wears a hint of smile.

The mountains, stoic,
have seen such storms before.
The lake, a picture of dichotomy,
Who knows how deep still waters run?

Answers are for those
who brave the journey,
one must walk in light to touch the sun.

A Lasting Fabric

Tags

anniversary poem

The tapestry,
a dichotomy of day
and night, of seasons lush
and seasons ripe followed
by fallow days,
for even love must rest.

Wove a million years ago,
primordial, yet undying,
with interlocking warp and weft
in colors that grow rich
with time’s elapse.

This tapestry,
bequeathed with trust
that we would guard it well
in sickness and in health,
wears its patches proudly.

September

Tags

Autumn, frost, September song

 

Spring fever
has been cooled by September.
The ecstasy of rosebuds
stirs in my memory,
their melody out of touch
with the rhythm
of reality.  

Outside myself, wild geese
vee through changing weather.
Their instincts land them safely.

The world is tidal now.
Summer’s beach is limed
with empty shells.
A wave comes in,
perhaps from Portugal,
cresting on a wind
that carries frost.

 

From a Garret with a View

Tags

atmosphere, cold, garret, heart, inspiration, muse, poets ink, truth

 

Spangled with sparkled stars
the sky wears indigo robes,
   thick velvet against the chill,
deeper there in the upper atmosphere
where poets dwell in thinner clothes.

Shivering in godforsaken garrets 
                              with great views,
poets have no fear of truth,
The nightmare is that they will not find it
on this planet where love and beauty
linger for a season and headlined lies
make the papers sell.

Wise moon, keep us from the cold;
Let your golden beams stretch
the candle’s tallow until the sun
will rise again and new ink will flow
from poet’s heart    to pen.

 

Stages of Decay

Today, as the old truck
rattles around the hair pin curve
on Rabbit Hill,
blue paint gleams
like a proud possession
on the one fender still intact,
The other three flap precariously
in various stages of death by rust
while Sue Hart’s old coon dog
bays mournfully at the rattling cough
from the aging engine,
then chases his tail
rather than make the long trek
to the stand of hickory trees
to chase a raccoon
that might chase back.

As Sue Hart’s father
cuts Mr. Miller’s hair,
snipping carefully around the giant mole
on the center of his head,
and Sue Hart sits in her 1950s kitchen
sipping ovaltine
from a cracked blue willow cup,
we sit on worn upholstery
at ‘Grounds for Thought’,
sipping fresh brewed hazelnut
and looking everywhere
except into each other’s eyes.