In her imaginary distraction,
everything
stops as she looks around.
She selects a turn,
the one of coloring
and innuendo-
a highlighter pink
in the field of grey-
intimate overtones
of a sacred familiar-
and she pursues it.
She captures the banded words,
a gathering of flowers
to fill her hands
and draw in close,
holding her breath,
when exhalation
means
absolution.
across the face
of the moon,
lights tinder by
in a slow procession
passing from dark
to light
and back to dark.
that brief time,
pronounced holy,
of all bright with allure
of anointed time [when it resolves]
and on the lake below
a herald
shimmers
a reflection
in the shallows-
and I ask, when?
just because
a spark burst
in sun-ly ways-
an excimer flare-
a dazzle- beware
the aftermath
of this exclaimated
instant-
when the airs
are gone – vaporizing
and in the moment,
extemporizing-
a crumbly proclivity
appears and departs
in a fluted nigh,
and we are left with
a notion-
nary embers or sighs.
*************
I do enjoy the sounds of words. Also, I enjoy the freedom, as a poet, to create a “word” where none exists -if it suits my purpose for conveying a mood or contributing to a sound collage. This poem, I think, does both. Thanks for reading.
A red door
with plate glass casements ’round
enclosing a deepened vestibule-
and shadows on white walls are bound.
bold-faced clouds that billow
into thunderstorms on Sundays-
woodland sunflowers that line
shadowed waterfront lanes.
alone under
a darkened rift of stars –
in wonder of their stillness,
yet know not what they are
it is the wind that blows from the shore
out to sea.
it is the light that steals from obscurity
it is the embrace of an onliest thing
it is the sum of these
that sways me on a quiet string.
Sometimes the best place to be is inside the mind of a writer,
as an undeveloped character just observing the story as it erupts.
Sometimes the best place to be is on a field, just ahead
of a brewing thunderstorm, feeling the wind as it sweeps the grasses.
Other times it is best to be there when the rain is stopping
and the sound of thunder -far-away- rumbles on an unseen field.
Sometimes to lie on a field, and watch the stars appear.
At times, to wake in the night, and hear the silence
as it lulls you back to sleep.
Then sometimes, when the sun-rays fan between houses
capturing the morning in a blooming progression, it is best to be there.
Sometimes it is best to be the pivotal word in a sentence
from your love, her inflection and enunciation drawing a painting of the next moment,
where it is best to be.
the rain crept in
at night –
these are stranger puddles,
reflecting
the morning brume, battering
the ground with purpose
and the beginnings of a day.
***
the sky
as it divulges
a mood, bathed in muted temperament,
each second brings a new
brilliance,
as seen by
its reflection
in pools of water.
***
in the guise of a bond,
that which comes down
must return
and a kinship is embraced
and eminence reflected.
To write of writing seems so trite
and through this morning all alight,
composing and constructing rime
I seemed to focus all my time
on something sonorous and sleek
and this I cared to form and tweak.
Yet, I could not stay the sounds,
the ones that crack, the ones that round,
the ones that exhale in the wind,
the ones that rest and feed and sin.
I could not break them -though so eager-
then left for you, my reckless reader-
Something in the writing here
with devotion to the ear,
in the hopes that when you read
the music, timbre’d whole will cede
and capture from its hiding place
a flush – a sweltering embrace.
in truth,
held between the point
and paper,
-all writing is captive.
No matter
its color in light
or softness of skin,
whether veiled by chiffon or lace
or by shadows covering your face,
this bathes and penetrates
the pages in.
And here I, the author,
have placed myself
on this adjoining space-
and if desired and allowed,
(if nothing else be true)
I’ll awaken in some verse
absorbed in text
or presuming scrawl,
in a moment
next to you.
Taps and Ratamacues 