Autumn sonnet

we mourn the passing warmth ‘tis all but done;

and grieve as if we didn't already know

the faithful trace of gifts left by the sun

were etched in veins by days of  golden glow.

Inside the lush full covers, leafed and green

by whispers from the  heart of dearest star

a red and yellow season lay unseen

like wind blown rainfall pelting from afar.

In deserts treeless stands the singing sands

bring haunting tones of flowing wind and dunes

where seasons in apposition expand

beneath the face of ever changing moon

as passing warmth, does slowly ebb away

the beautied bones of summer glide and sway

healing

A broken spirit found a time

that healed important things

when Angels made their handiwork

upon vestments of disbelief.

Those who shivered felt warmth

those in emptiness, learned new hope

and the satisfied learned the beauty

of want and need:  how life

is a race to stay close upon the heels of time.

A broken spirit healed without prayer

or admission, for there is no cause

or defense for Love(--) it is the first atom(--)

it is the best and last of us.

a circle in wait

A star is born; a star dies.

Bathed in throes of birth and death

a cold heaven neither shivers nor shakes,

but simply gleams bursts of life.

Whether first or last,

into a circle in wait-

bounds yet to be reached.

Beginning to end, fire and flame

frightful waves of power

and all that can be exists within such moments(--)

powers of creation(--) wherein will is an absent vapor,

love without the pale;

yet when such a creature-a  love burdened life- beholds

then the cycle winds itself  anew.

For it is then that love infects the stream

and a dream begins to live.

edge of a flower

She has wandered far from faith

far from a  day when her world

folded within  a sweet Holy song;

followed  heels of an old priest

the old church, the whole family

layered like the ages of Earth

far from belief

where now we seem to be fools in folly

when death takes love and

time leaves us empty.

Time is a perfecting tide

come to erase random prints on shore

a choice remains -within us,

in the strength given our arms-

do we rise…or drown

She has wandered far from me

and I grieve, as in those takings,  

a wall like finality, separations

that bar another word, another

kiss; and recall when she sang

that little song of great faith for me.

Sweetness of a child in the apse,

an inheritance of hope…

wandered far….Now I must

have faith for two, reflect hopes of many. The love

that comes after tears, after the leavings, after

echoes of  door close

 She has wandered far,

while I hold a faith in happiness-

like the edge of a flower - and wait.

Harvest Moon

was it hope or fear..
love or the lack of love,
I do not know how
an indifferent night
was persuaded ...to share
it's precious gem
like a cradled egg--
a birth of dreams

hdm

photocredit  Earthsky.org

 

night song

black keys tell the story,
white keys simply agree;
and night rises like a cloud from the sea
covering stars and distant mysteries
giving me no choice I listen to a voice
a woman, a song of the night.

In the timbre of her poetry
the black keys speak again
the road was hard rest uneasy
my pen begins to move, as does she
once more rises and falls gently
making love to my senses, I easily
submit to her will, for it is mine too.

To wallow with her, roll in heat we make
and white keys lead us on until
it is I, a woman in my eyes,
and a night that would
suspend sunrise.

vision in autumn tree

sightless, as walls of mists 

birthed a fit of flaps and slaps

then soft tones like wind in carved spaces

filled this gaunt and gray-bare tree

emitted from its cloak of cold and fog

softened dry throat songs from ravens

who defied lingered dark at dawn

a reach for warm day, release

from the long hunger of night.

Flightless stands have endured ravenous needs

and song sound floats

like these billows of low flung cloud.

In the interstices my spirit adds

a tympani, thrums of harp strings

a thoughtful four-part harmonic hum

all the while a transformation

in sudden glints of sun(--)

fluffed wet wings and readied

for the inspired moment to rise(--)

perhaps will be a breeze from the east

where far above sweet Venus still rises

to whet the will of ancient auguries.

Their black sleek shine, gleams in seeming holy light

this burly choir of crows to now

become a quiet stillness, buds of sunflame

limb upon bare and shaking limb-

a murder of angels.