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.