The Year Undone

The reaping seems particularly deep, this season
brought new reasons to wish a speedy New Year to begin;
let the lingering furrows that it leaves on our brow
to round  and flatten by the weight of time and sky fallen tears.
Every turn of the page seems to burn a new scar
some loved or adored spirit wisped away
like candles in too harsh wind; it does not stay.
Life is the miracle on swift wings.

Held like a treasure by those who understand
time is the only path, unforgiving and filled
with the moments we could not keep, and yet
somehow, in the recall they flash by again-
an echo of what was, a wished for return
a quickened flash, and a slow burn.

The reaping cuts so dear, staring glass-eyed,
we feel the winter touch bare skin.

winter's green

Cold gray days, and green trees
wear the newly fallen snow;
they make a deeper silence
as they muffle roars to whispers.

Sentinels of a boundless season, they stand
wrapped in today's fresh quilt,
bowing with accustomed grace
under weight of new crowned beauty.

I hear the groan of tangled roots
the grudging rub of cross-leaned trunks
re-assembling the order
 agreed so long ago
with the flat face of the tilted sun
and harsh and testing winds.

Here among winter's green
embraced by the warmth it needs
to freeze but a little
there is peace and vapor breath.

As if all of the animals know
each day we climb the ladder
to greater light and warmth.
Today, we tread upon earth's sweet sleep 
beneath its soft, white blanket.

My path to there

 

You stood there, where i journeyed;
half-across the world i knew, into the new
There like the silvered nights I'd left behind
were you in memory and touch, in kind, a blend
of wished for things and vaunt rebellions.

Considered at the edge of hope,
the petal fall of soft moon flower, a poetry
of soft winds and eager skin; turned wintry chill
into the breathless heat of summer.
It was solstice in the southern hemisphere
as tropical heat burned in our thoughts,
hidden within ancient lines, and revealed
in the sandy gist of her skin
on the burnished bronze of mine.

dark days and light years

The autumn comes with such haste
not like the slow crawl from winter to spring;
autumn comes like the sunset in the mountains.
One is sure there are still golden rays flowing
in the valley below, but the chills
have seized the hills; fallen into dark days.

Thus the calendar seems to be a liar
unfair in its desire to fold my sunny days of play away.
i think it wrong, like the night time storm that quiets bird songs;
could it not find a better time...

When the world is here to please me, and i accept
nothing less, I imagine my powerful self esteem
offended; I pound afoot that seismically resounds
from here to the Eagle nebula or some such
creature of eternal tides so vast we measure them
in ages of wished for life...light years.

I could stop here, having said what was needed to expose
the charlatan chronicler of the calendar days,
but there is chicanery within the dishonesty.
Autumn with its sudden snow and bitter squalls
is still far milder than winter, and confounds my frown.
Though I wince in the morning frost, it is
like all of the blessed life we truly see,

from the turn of the world over the ocean,
the arc of her pouted lower lip,
the curl of the flaring wave ashore,
and the sway of her perfect hips,
it is all... exquisitely beautiful.

Lost pennies

 

Fumbled over my fingers, under
a gaze only half-here, the copper disks
that make a slowest mountain of wealth
speak of meanings, numbers and herstory.

Lincoln never smiles nor raises his chin
he led us in life and after led us still
now still he reminds there was greatness in courage
strength when withstanding the gale
and the best of us when love of truth rises
above the lines of present sight. We soar
over the arch of a wished for time;
when we would be better than we could imagine.

Below my bearded friend in his most familiar silhouette
are the numbers of this and other lives.
Remembered some and discovered others
times that search the spirits for the present echoes
of past agreement; for we are truly lost now
if we cannot share this eternal wish, to be true to self
and every other human.

Jesus and Sparrows

 

The air holds a low cloud  of smoke
remnants of dreams, stale jokes, yo' mama'so pokes
and  that umm-ummm-ummmm when she walks past;
the music squeezes in between the wiggles and the walks,
the cocky strolls, big hats,  and all the talk.
I can listen to the air

Then someone turns on Miles and it fades
to Duke and the Train, and I think of the last
song my Mother sang, just to me.

Was when the crowd gathered
in the church by the railroad tracks, on the Sunday
afternoon of bird sounds in  summer breezes
made for white ball, brown bats and green blades
as I sat; wanting so many other things, I got
the answer to a prayer I'd not yet conceived.

She pointed her eyes and arms upward,
to the heaven she had carefully made
by blessings sown in fields of Love,
and she sang, soft and sweet, of Jesus, and sparrows
and faith that makes mountains take wing,

the crowd rocked to rhythm, caught-up in her warmth,
and listened to the air,
as she sang just to me

precious hour

 

the extra hour..always a little nugget of surprise
that i can turn over again and dream another dream;
that extra hour, so full amongst the weak trickle of morning minutes.
An opportunity born full-,
like Aphrodite in the surf, a thing of infinite potential
and boundless worth;  I wrestle
with the burden of choice--
like the prophet on the desert floor--
a struggle in the tent for supremacy
will it be fantasy or logomachy?

Conversations from my adventurous youth
rise like happy ghosts, and the notion of freedom,
so sudden, it is the epiphany that comes
like a bolt of white in the stillness of night.
i await the thunder or the echoes of a canyon,
or the loon song bounced off the pines.

An hour... to devour the complexities of time
to understand that light can crawl and darkness escape vision
with an inspired alacrity; there is an utter synchronicity 
to the 'making and unmaking of me.
i live, i die ; i inhale, and  i reason.
i speak endlessly from heart to spirit,
to the heart of the heart where i dwell
in a splendid solitude.
There, awaiting the door to open when once again
i pass myself going to and from life...

ohhh, this hour, precious hour...as my eyes clear
and the clock speaks of... afternoon

Photo…

Sometimes I see you

In a hush, a silence as when

I take a breath and wish away

Every part of the day, let my eyes

Search for a path between

Discard the room, and sense

You as the moon and softness

Soaked in the glow of a hidden sun

I can be a little lost

Feel a little broken and be

Found in a question created by

An invitation in your eyes, framed

by unspoken words, overwhelmed

by the need to hold a moment,

to answer…a wish

Hidden in November

The air makes a soft bosom, a welcome changing,
And breath comes easier in cool sips.
The colors of land and growing things
Reflect the past days of summer heat.

Rays of bright golden daytime star
Folded beneath a patina of bold green, now
Unwrapped like the gift of the season.
To the eyes it brings nostalgic memories
Of how we were when we knew so much less about today
And so much more about tomorrow.

In Tulsa

It was a clear day

quiet on the highway, middle America

and they way it can see

on a clear quiet day, a moment

became a flame..and the darkness of the mystery

surrounds someone beloved, bright now

in a cloak of faith

So beloved that when he fell the hearts

of a sullen people fell, further still

we again witness the evil

the will of fear and tainted vision

that even on a clear, quiet day

cannot abide peace; and the highway

grows cold on a summer day.

Fear rises like heat of day, words they say

to cloud the air, words that reflect the limits of care

to those we see in a particular way

Love finds the clear highway,

such thirsty ground; and eyes verge,

lips tremble, breath is hard.

A memory and a smile

becomes another way to say

we loved this man, now...that he is gone,

we love this man.

Late Summer...

The time is upon us when

neither nature nor we can turn face from summer

not completely, not without the lingering wish

for warmth, and bright touch of  sun...

nostalgia takes on a present tense in every

waterside photo, and thoughts of lapping waves

that caress a part of recent memory mark

tender day's fall into cooling nights.

The first shudder and curl of covers

tells us that evenings foretell

how steep the descent to the coldest

when the earth tilts her chin and

the moon takes on an anomalous warmth

in vapors of words I speak to her.

In the stillness of the slow walk

down this winding stair into cooler air

i am glad for the way summer clings to me

the inner side

Somewhere between the closing of a lid

And the way we in the world absorb your eyes

Is a place where beauty takes voice

Speaks its refusal...to leave.

A disquiet that precedes rebellion

takes hold in this tiny space

As skin holds the  ripeness of light

To curl around the cherry lips

The warming of the inner side

Rises to the side we see.

Frailty becomes a delicate petal of night

in the moon’s special flavor;

Wrapped in the hour of its own choosing.

within your smile

 

In the time that passes from me to thee

A reflection of something so much greater

returns within your smile

Than the man before you; standing

in a space filled with your admiration.

When you hold my image

Speak my name

Or re-send a song I taught you,

There am I, small and hidden in one you invent

The one grown within your gaze

autumn’s eves

An uneasy truce towards dawn

Between those who love darkness

And them that it had crept upon

To hold to the stillness before morn

And want of the day

It was an unseemly silence but

It held all enthrall; birds kept their songs

And the familiar  early whirrs were not heard.

The drip of August dews rang like bells against

The paling blue sky  - an uneasy truce as time plodded by

The purposes of all the to-do

Came clear as the faraway glow

Began to show above the vague horizon

For now, we leave summer’s ends for autumn’s eves

So precious is the change

We enter the last of a long, strange year

So eventful as to be kept long after the final lines

And the heartfelt, heavenly applause.

clear day flood

There was a contest of will
between mankind and the sea;
in frozen layers, time
held a secret security- it kept waters cool and low.

Beyond man's reach, it seemed,
each year the white ice rose from the deep blue sea
covering land and other waters
unseen by test of any human memory.

The bet went on, and man
unfurled wings of movement.
Dependent on burning and dumping into the air
billions joined the cavalcade;
few took the time to care
what they did-- how it built upon itself.

When industry decided it was king
and could make ruins of any and all things
to fuel its need for greed;
there came time to burn without limit.

So the magic was cast-- there would never be
a limit, we burn as we please and the world will bend
until we say enough.
 We have burned and
the world kept its promise to hold all of the gifts
come of greed- in air, water, and soils; it held all.
The warnings rose without seduction
crystal clear by any measure we made;
we simply had to settle on the plain induction of truth
or the winding road of self-deceit. So it was easy,
self-deceit it was, and those few and true
could only wait and watch.
The small minds with limitless wealth  turned
ignorance into man's greatest gift to the world.

Now... we have wet shoes and brilliant sunsets
the coastlines have begun to merge
with the consequences of our urgent urges-- we burned
and now we have wet toes
and our dry ankles know  the wisdom of the past
We have burned  and now we will see...wet knees.

Scoffing at the rising tides, clear day flood,
first, comes to streets and cities near the tides.
Soon, they come for all of us. Admit or deny
words will be wet...for the world is at one;
unconvinced of its credulity, in denial
they now hurl words blank confusion
a form of internally combusted stupidity
that,  like the dry taste of truth...
does not impress the rising seas.

sun and early birds

Stumbled upon, there is justice at day's end,

life is a long march towards truth;

We waver each moment along the way

testing winds and tasting breezes.

Like the sweetness at the season's end

when the blessings of sun and time have ripened

the natural world, and we can see the goodness

of patience and care; we must step towards the eternal

sunrise, the glow on the next horizon.

Coming day blends away darkness we must pass

to stagger, sometimes blind, and forward

unto a truth distilled by drops;

they fall like verging tears

or faithful dew gathered before first light

and the call of mourning doves.

We are the slithers in the wet grass

when sun and early birds are near

rising to the call of an unerring voice

we fall and yet we know

there is sadness in the moments we spend

and want in happiness we cannot keep.

Bound to the circles of life, unbroken until they end;

we flourish as spirit and world contrive us to be:

a breath, an insinuation, a dot of day, and at last...

an echo..

my first Angels

I have listened to beautiful songs
played by symphonies of light and dark
seen colours born at dusk or dawn
come to thrill me...
I have seen kind brown eyes, and Love
with folded wings stood nearby, attending
love and fear

Life in many folds unrolled like waves
to a thirsty shore
Gifts in every breath and blink, a universe
boundless and the will to drink every drop
there are moments that simply overwhelm
the greatest gift that we can know
Here, it is gratitude
for blessings asked and given
and those i can only feel
when I remember my Mother's eyes
and the kisses wished by my first Angels

wheat field

In the time needed to bat an eye

You come and go; a perfume of a sigh

Touching skin in gentle furrows

Unknowing strands of your hair.

By sensation, a trace and image

Linger, so fleeting yet firm;

a memory made of fractioned time.

Convincing as any reality

I continue to see the glimmered

light and golden strands.

I think of wandering through a field

Ripe soft wheat expressing the winsome winds

Ahead, the blue sky frames edges of the trees

To making mounds and hills of leafy boughs

And to whistled brush of winds that speak

In a welcoming tongue, we run as if entranced

And footfalls make a dance of eager smiles.

Field’s end, we fall into moistened shade

And detect the laughter of a nearby brook

As body heat dissembles mossy ground into a bed,

I roll over to face full red lips;

 in a moment that cannot yet decide

Whether to bridge to ground or sky.

a cosmic watch

The wind gave life

To spots of dark and light-
brushed voices in the trees.

As the motion of distant stars

Turned the face of night

into a cosmic watch.

So little did time matter

and yet it was all, 

for in the sight of a petty man,

a speck within a mote;  

the bend of the world

bore a pregnant dawn.

Yet he too swims

in the eternal sea, 

flung on a vast tide beyond sight

imaginings and memory.

It was the wind

that made silence stir

and the lift of spirit

brought a prayer across

his ever expectant lips

waiting , waiting for fire 

and a blessing.

By the few…

Something unseen by the many, yet

always seen and deeply felt by the few,

has suddenly become all that everyone can see-

the killings of Black men by police violence in America.

It flashes like fire around the shrinking globe

like lightning unto an epiphany, so many can suddenly…see.

For the few it has meant a blood-boiling fury

that melts the rock of resistance , and thunders in the heart.

It inspires rebellions of thought that spew

Through the hard crust of the world; a fire

That mere reason cannot contain, for existence

Is the imperative of life, and in this brutality

the already flimsy filament of life

is a flickered candle in a ceaseless wind.

It is, after all, the lives of our children hung

In this balance; the cruel harvests on hard Ferguson streets

Or a tranquil park in Cleveland flowed

In unforgettable red in Baton Rouge…the red that leaves

Fire in the eyes and a cramp in the voice.

Now, suddenly, everyone can see,

Through eyes that swell to verge,

For It hurt no less in Dallas; it is life-

in all of its precious forms and fragility-

And it is a terrible thing to waste.