Wednesday, May 22, 2013
I do not love you as I love the Rose of Saturn
whose beauty tantalizes from afar
a flame atop a vast ringed world
a maelstrom’s fury become a crown.
I do not love you like that curled dome of storms
circled flumes paint a deep flowered rose
in petals of powerful winds, raised
a distant sky to crimson, red as flame.
I do not love you as I adore this fiercest flower
like tenacious ruby orbs of high deserts and mountains
persistence for its own sake, alone and splendid,
stark and sudden, a glance bares its beauty.
Because I think of you, you are never alone;
because I keep you, you are never distant.
Because we love, love rages like eternal storms;
because your rose is a fire, a fire burns in my heart.
Photo credit: NASA Cassini Spacecraft hurricane at the north Pole of Saturn, it has been speculated that the storm has been there for many years. My guess is that it has been there for many decades or more, locked in place by the gravity and magnetic pull of the polar region.
Thursday, May 16, 2013
...just before the southbound swarm
fills the beauty of a warm spring day
with circle-form angst -journeys
for bills we need to pay-closure
of silly loops; we with brains and souls
chase the ever-moving goals-
debts have made.
On highway 94 an aroma unexpected
among flowered apple and cherry,
random wild flower volunteers
and my eye- that most tactful sense- finds
the wrinkled jowls and chain-dimpled sides
the tender look of tough hog hides
pressed to air holes along coupled brides
of rumbled tandem trucks, riders doomed
to be such as delicious, tender, Fathers’ prides
near the toxic charcoal grills; chemical-ed
meats spread with real gooey trans-fat, artificial flavors.
All will be invited to savor the relics
of an earlier time. When holiday
meant beer and smiles, haven’t-seens-for-a-while
All along 94 South, not a sound did I hear
from hundreds of mouths taking in petrol-ed air;
in loop close journeys there too.
A trek that began with survival of a cull
to end with snout and skull jostled
past a poet in a speeding car, watching
for the words they cannot further carry; a sentence
that speaks upon visions of trucks that reek…
yet wrought a feeling of commonality,
such journeys have we(--)and for all pretense(--)
just as heedless of its certain destiny.
Thursday, May 9, 2013
There should be a word I could say
that would instantly let me know you
a word that would translate all –
your sadness and beauty, the tree of your life.
Transcend the mosaic of a woman
shell and marvels- the sense of she within;
when love is a forged steel, bringing
conquest and surrender to the most tender
enduring moments man can make.
There is mystery behind the eyelashes
the focused views they adorn, the worlds they filter
vastness as within motes and specks
that float in a sunbeam.
There should be a word, a key from my lips
into the treasured vaults… of your heart.
Saturday, May 4, 2013
There in tangled rail yards, on tracks of time
lines upon lines of them: Cars of dreams.
Dreams from south traveled north
laded from harsh docks and jangled chains,
dreams wet with woman’s tears.
Rainbows of dreams--
golden from the gentle kiss of sun;
pale shades --
Blacks like ebony night;
reds held in dune songs.
There were dreams that came to sudden end,
dreams that roamed and meandered;
slowly ...like bends of great rivers.
Dreams ... like faded sounds; echoed train calls
in mountains- -
Dreams from deep souls of mother’s grief
in emptied hands of lost and taken worlds.
They were there in disarray- some,
in ordered files and closeness- others;
Full of cargoes that no longer have any use
relics now, signs of earlier times, abandoned schedules.
Dreams ...that followed steamy night,
still drift in wait like flower scents
for love and answer; all, all
are there in rail yards of disuse.
Upon overgrown and sunken steels
dilapidated stocks of life, and skeleton shells.
“If only” they say, if only… a wind,
a wrinkle in smooth sheets of time, if only…
and in sleep that comes to hold us
a way of time like ice awaiting thaw
in restless states of heart and memory
in place- they swim against the stream…they cannot be still
for if stilled, they cannot be; they rail upon rails
and stir within seasons, in gusts and blows;
in night storms that warm possibility.
Like great golden bolts that ease clouds…they believe
fire will overcome the gravity of night.
Inspired "Sueños de trenes," Estravagario, 1958
by Pablo Neruda
Translated by Clayton Eshleman
Saturday, April 27, 2013
swimming in the stream...
a still minnow
angels climb a rainbow
raised by spring gusts
a woman's skirt ...
old man's slow smile
a lover leaves,
cherry blossoms fall
in the sound of your voice...
the taste of a kiss
Thursday, April 25, 2013
the beginning of a storm
a subtle thing, more felt than seen;
leaf tips turn, a long clouded sky
seems more certain to descend and touch.
Aromatic earth lies open as if in wait.
The end of a storm, quiet falls like
a curtain upon the stage; the last bolt of fire
and last belly roars fill distant peaks.
It was all the matters in between
that shook ground and resounded
through to the root of us- and everything
seen, touched, tasted-- so different; our
wet skins basted in coolness
as sky and surface mate in elastic
We notice a quiet surrender
upward flow of new clouds
reformed sun to prism-ed arcs.
Yet it is such as we, revel in the spent and shared;
a blend like soft summer winds and dripped leaves.
We can sometimes know a thing of infinite wonder
how life passes...like the edges of a storm.
Tuesday, April 16, 2013
When life is a too brief page of poetry,
a start that climbs to interruption;
words yet rising to the high point
an unmet crescendo of song.
Simply not long enough it seems
to meet the reach of dreams, the utter want…
the deep passion for things not done
We can see the race against time;
apace, never won, for it covers like a skin.
Yet we contend for it is all we know-
just as the voice within- it carries our truths.
Until it leaves and just the others race on,
those done and those yet to be…found in untold mystery
as faith and spirit speak of light.
When life is a deep ache, an emptiness;
a dreaded silence at the end of love