Category Archives: imagery

A Violette

This poem was partly inspired by the song “Arthur McBride”, a protest Irish folk song of sorts that describes a chance meeting during a walk. After listening, you may find yourself humming the tune as you read.

One morning while walking my big yellow dog,
strolling the sidewalk and whistling a song,
the sun creeping slow and the sound of a frog
moaning and croaking, forewarning.

Coming towards us, two men in red caps
and a little boy pulling a wagon in back
I nodded hello, with a smile and a snap.
The sunlight was waking and yawning.

Hello there, my good friend, spare us some time
to explain our day’s mission – the work it is prime.
Our leader needs your vote in this political clime.
The lib’rals are gathering and swarming.

He’ll keep us all great and help us to win.
He is the best president that ever has been.
He’s building a wall, and he’s scourging the sins.
We think he is righteous and charming.

But what has he done, I asked in reply.
He’s lied to the congress and voters alike.
He insults hero’s families and impeachment decries.
He’s neither so righteous nor charming.

He fancies himself a dictator of sorts,
thinks he’s above the law with contempt for the courts.
Others who govern enable this farce –
afraid to lose power, suborning.

Also, he’s ill-prepared to lead us through strife;
He doesn’t know science or healthcare, he swipes
At the laws we enact for our planet, our lives.
We should be outraged and swarming.

He’s not empathetic for his fellow men,
He worships the dollar, he wholly pretends.
My dog shows more care and concern (compassion)
And then the dog barked without warning.

The red-hatted men stood there scowling, their sprog
was contentedly sitting and petting the dog
(Who sat and enjoyed the attention he brought).
The sun it was higher and fawning.

You see that he’s happy and very content,
For the kindness that your boy has given to him.
He’s ever so loyal, a true life-long friend
and doesn’t annoy with his barking.

Let those who divide for political gain
adopt a philosophy that doesn’t give blame.
We need to avoid the one-upmanship game
The stakes are too high for this scorning.

Now fifteen weeks hence, I am here to recall
this chance encounter that we had – one and all,
the red-hatted men, their ward and my dog
stood on the corner mid-morning.

And now we can no long gather for chat.
The boy he succumbed to a virus, and that
has enveloped a world that was angry and fat.
Now we are all sad and in mourning.

While strolling this evening and walking my dog –
Alleyways quiet, no crowds there agog.
My canine looked back to the noise from a frog
moaning and croaking, forlornly.

April 2020

This is a time of blossoms.
Each day, a petal grows to hide the thorns.
The wind-kicked clouds cry onto the pavement
where people walked in groups
chattering just a few weeks ago.

The clatter and rumble of man’s progress replaced
as the thunder ricochets into the emptiness of night,
followed at dawn by singing birds
among our edifices
from their nests embedded in the steel and concrete.

Mountains breathe the clearing air in a respite
from our industriousness.

We mourn what we have lost,
both the temporary and the dear.

Yet as we cover our mouths in silence,
our eyes are open to see a blossoming world
giving so much in our absence.

Isolation

Once among a growing cluster
Can a flower bloom alone?

Will a single word not rhymed
still take on poetic tones?

Does a song without its chorus
soar in hearts, fill a home?

Can a single buzzing bee
pollinate without the swarm?

Will I write if no one listens
In our isolation?

The solitary bumblebee
seeks and finds the pollen source.

A melody alone can cause
a tear, a smile from lonely hearts.

While a single word won’t rhyme
another one will build a verse.

And single blossoms here and there
dot and beautify the earth.

And here, myself in solitude
I craft this poem without remorse.

Portamento

As if the sunrise welled and overflowed,
an inkling of light, then creation bestowed.
Anticipation moments pass
from intra-chordal throes,
at last to grounded melody in phrase.

Or let me express in other ways;
a passion builds in smaller plays.

First, the pedal points of tone suffice,
a basis for embracing life.
Like moon and stars and sunlight greet
the common ground beneath our feet.

Tunes of commonality composed
above this founding base suppose
synchronicity imbued,
and many intervals accrue.

Yet, with the suspense here to next
a lingered moment’s desired effect
mellifluous, and tasting sweet,
such to sweep you off your feet.

As memories are long and vast
our songs with portamento last.

A description of her mantle piece

Designed to draw eyes upward,

scraggly stakes of winter are positioned

to point to the space above the mantel.

Here, only brick and mortar backdrop reside.

A façade of permanence, punctuated with lines.

Below the weathered twigs, a swath of green spreads about the shelf.

This comforting shawl teems with dense sprigs,

lush in every moment and angle

both symbolic and real, a mantle.

Interwoven are ornamental moments of silver, or of color and contrast,

fancied by a studious mind and placed by fussy hands,

yet are accustomed and sincere.

Tapered pick of crystal, a moment, the glittering fractals suspended in time,

And though a sheaf in days of stored abandonment,

it is now her manteau from twig to bough,

subduing winter’s darkness,

that embraces the starkness of an empty hearth and warms the room.

Now and then

It was entire durations of a dream, she stood behind me, not a sound.

Then a gleam of light hit the ground, a shadow fell and her voice sang a round.

Now, the memory a more abundant chorus than I recall

with my littered words that clash and brawl – my slumber at an end.

I never saw her face, neither that of lover or a friend.

Another day may bring her near, perhaps with some quieter verse to hear as when it was just then.

Pieces

There is a puzzle to the course of living,
the fragments pieced in the order of their discovery.
Framing is followed by detailed construction of the things you find familiar,
With lines of similar breadth and swaths of shades of color
that fade and brighten, trying to intercede
among the pieces where interlocking forms are implicit
though not fated to be joined.
The uniting of pictorial flakes, a rewarding, engrossing
event – that drives you on to seek another, and another beyond and so…
With long spells of delusion and vexation
interspersed among the brighter moments of recognition.
The fulfillment of a vignette completed
the emotions in a red-tinged array resound,
all assembled by meticulous serendipity,
and a confidence that all the pieces are there to be found.

An unexpected drive

I saw the sun sparkle between the leaves

just before the outpouring of red and gold,

that moment of flux when everything is not new.

A bird flock undulated in our view.

A tarnished framework bridge sat to cross over

the creek, a connection between us and there:

A rusty reminder of the history of travels.

How many have driven this dirt road before?

Who else remarked upon the aging of the beams, has seen the streaming

brown water beneath.

The near-autumn sun advanced

upon the field.

An apple orchard in neglect to the left.

Weeds stood in contrast with the trees,

yet, apples continued to ripen and drop throughout the field,

leaving a sustaining memory.

The bird flock returned to a billow and thrum

and I drove on, following a ebbing sun.

Butterfly

There is a flitting butterfly in sight of all the passers-by-

lighting on a broad-leaf, I wish that I could blink and be

a butterfly, like one I see.

What species, then, I couldn’t tell,

the lighting in the field was fell,

but simply with its fleeting swell it caught my eye and cast a spell.

Whether monarch, with its spotted wings

or swallowtail, a colored thing of yellow with perhaps some blue

that sang a presence, then withdrew

to places past where I could see, leaving just my fancy free:

wondering what butterfly I could be.