I jump over waves in the wind, now thinned-
causing a splash on descent, and the water imbues.
I walk in circles in some well-trodden shoes,
soles that are worn to the heel.
And the crestfallen face of my mind
urged in the gentle spell of her lines-
the brushstrokes of her pastel flowing gown
compel me to write something down.
I frolic amidst the swell and soak in
the flow of her form that rescinds
the aches in my well-trodden soul.
I stand embracing the image and whole.
When you came with white rabbits in your arms,
not for greater gifts of genius,
the wispy, the lightly lifted or stirring threads of existence.
I’ve learned everything is falling outward –
Quickening for the land and sea,
Drawing contours, shapes, and lines.
Shining nowhere, but in the dark
watching illumination upon illumination,
plunging and lifting, the grain spilling back.
Another circle is growing in the expanding ring –
and vanished into where they seemed to start
They are the future of us all.
**********
This Cento was composed using lines from the following poets.
Rita Dove, Frances Ellen Watkins Harper, Christopher Buckley, Gail Wronsky,Stephen Edgar, Henry Vaughn, Robert King, Barbara Howes, Tami Haaland, Dylan Thomas, May Sarton, Seamus Heaney
I mix about and silhouette
with spices, airs and colors.
It is jumbled, though – my palette-
perhaps wearisome for others.
I may pepper paste with sweetness,
or sing a trill with sadness.
I may paint beyond the lines in bluish green
with tawny shadows of unrest.
The smooth appearance of the grain
slightly roughens under touch,
the textured shelter between petals
holds me in, a friction clutch.
The seasoning of salt and lure
with sounds that twinge with grace
is who I was, and am to be
in glimpses I embrace.
The grey blue sky sits somber
till the sun arrives, pink glint and shine
off buildings -faces in the darkened
canopy revealed as blossoms in bouquets.
The stack of bricks sit solid
till the men decide, with sweat and mortar
placing them in preset order – line
structures built to demarcate.
The words I hear ring silent
till the light resides, with spur and purpose
on their ebbing rule and tide – a dawn
A gath’ring of brush come late.
From 2015…..
^#^#^#^#^#^#^#^
They wander, and yonder they go in the dark
with glow sticks, beyond
them the moonlight, and barks
the taffeta, heavy-set makeup and screams-
the night of the beggar, of horrors and dreams.
The rustle of paper, the rattle of chains-
Billy and Molly fight over the brains.
The princess and pirate, too shy to speak up
the conjuring words while Dad just drinks up.
A drop in the bucket-a thump in the night
the blood of the ghoulish departed from sight.
The clown with the paste face, the witch all in black
the ogres and goblins all stomp and attack.
The flapping of ravens, the quiet of stares
at once-a-year play acting- acute and with scares.
Then beating the pavement and swarming the lawns
the tidal rush crushes, and then they are gone.
All manner of monsters and bold super-kids
Just listen for drumbeats, like Gene Krupa did.
*************
Soundtrack prior to writing/reading this poem: Sing, Sing, Sing.
In the gardens near my house
the plants and grass are overgrown.
The flowers died a month ago
and nothing has been done.
In the gardens there I spy
the wild and untamed branches grow
up and out from sturdy cover,
where there once was ordered rows.
In the gardens, where I go-
a silence overtook the stalk
of slow exact, the tidy stems
of leaf and bud -where once I walked.
In the gardens, seeming now
unkept and winked in disregard
the minute beauty still remains
I see the landscape,sowed and scarred.
To the gardens, I return
when seeking lines and clustered leaves
to fill my wanting mind with growth
for poems such as these.
Slipped into function, an x and o fashion
held fast between the thumb and forefinger
and shoved between stitches.
Crossed threads with fibrils
hatched of coral and seagreen coloring,
the twined straw-ness it sculpts
crossed purposes – to hold within
and to have beauty fitted on the surface.
Our eyes opened to the brief delights
of geminate pairing and not duality.
As hills become mountains and the lakes lead to streams,
then writing this poem is more like a scheme
to capture them both-though it seems in excess-
The climb and the ascent to narrowed obsess.
Shunning all reason of what comes to rest
on cliffs or near jetties in scenes I know best.
A beauty there waiting in sunlit repose,
her eyes slightly dimmed,as she dreams – I suppose.
And there at each waypost she lingers ahead
culling the scenery I’ve conquered and bred.
And where I go next is of no end, this I know.
She’ll be in the heights or the river below.
When I’ve lit a warming fire,
the blooming flames go licking higher
engulfing piled up timbers-
In oak and cherry cinder
new sparks,a hope engendered.
The crackling bite from fibres bound
now torn, fragmented in a sound-
pulled apart from stable lengths
betraying links and bonds and strength
new sparks,a hope engendered.
And after time, the flames reside
awaiting what I can provide,
More lumber on the bed of coals
feeding hungry, lonely souls-
new sparks, a hope engendered.
And after flickers fade to glows
and darkness settles, fills and stows
it’s bundles in the cloaking night
ever silent, there alight
new sparks, a hope engendered.
Negation, all fulfilled desire
gold with a heart of cinder.
Everything suggests something else.
When the weeds sprawl
it is not what you think.
The dust motes float
and swerve in the sunbeam
because I say we rather than they;
They change the color of your dream:
We is whiplash
and backhanded ways of settling grief.
And it is this rocking back and forth
to take in to sate the mouths
**************
This Cento contains lines from the following poets:
Shirley Geok-Lin Lim, Robert Frost, AF Moritz, Muna Lee, Carl Sandburg, Karen Volkman, Lee Herrick, WS Graham, Susan Donnelly, Alison C Rollins, Ha Jin, Jean Garrigue, Jacob Saenz
Taps and Ratamacues 