I’m not feeling very poetic today…It could be the indigestion that awoke me at 5 AM. The muse doesn’t like onions?
So rather that try to force-fit a poem, I direct you over to my “Not Poetry” link.
I figured out how to actually see these pages now.
Hope you visit and enjoy. Leave a comment or two. Thanks!
Through the layered woods stripped bare and grey
All seems quiet, dead from winter’s hold,
Twigs and leaves surrounding, uncajoled
From the season’s somnolescent stay.
Roots dug deep beneath the litter’s loam,
Just as dawn’s sweet kiss gives us the day
And new beginnings interrupt the sway,
Unseen proof of life amid the gloam.
Hearken to the living race we run.
Slow, the light, a penetrating gaze
Drops in parallel inside the maze
Yellow flowers rise, lean to the sun.
Harsh, as winter ends at knotted thread,
Gentle Spring returns, conceals the dead.
If you were to ask me where and when love was born,
whether on a sunny afternoon under a shade tree
in the corner of a familiar room,
or under the eaves of a shelter during pouring rain,
I could not know which place to say.
Though equally the place would not have mattered
as much as the work to consumate the creation,
-how it got there-
and the time it took for every nuanced surface and texture
to be smoothed or grooved by wind and weather;
of touches and locked gazes
focused on the horizon,
a slow exhalation of breath
prepared for that exact moment.
In a break from the contra danse,
when the light is new,
at its beginning, just strewn
in times of ephemeral appearance.
And the poet steps aside
to examine the heart
amid blind stops and starts,
focused with pinpoint precision.
Look away from the morning’s
in the opposite sky, anticrepuscular rays,
remind one of beauty’s emergence.
And the face is of love,
the blocked sounds reappear,
in an eye-blink, a mere
reminder of the dance’s convention.