Category Archives: love

Precipitous

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Sitting down at a cliff, my feet bare and dangling-

I stare at a horizon that’s confounding and mangling.

Where one should see glistening sunlight and all,

an iciness glooms in the form of a squall.

A hollering wind blew down from fell shadows

stealing the Good from the ones who bestow

kindness to strangers, as said by St. Paul-

unusual – I wonder to the face of a squall.

This kindness flies over and under and through

and cuts into natures of hate – like a coup.

Something that causes precipitous grace

blanketing iciness over in glace.

I sit on the cliff, my feet cold and misused –

while my dangling thoughts, now bright and suffused

cover a page that is much less embrangled.

I put on my shoes and go forth to the mangled.

Shimmering Light

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There’s a time when trees are bleeding,

To fill the space with something new.

Or with the birth from something seeding

blossoms, tapping into something true.

Darkness shimmers in the winter,

Lit by stars and crystal air.

A meaning carried front and center

When bells ring out so loud and clear.

A life, a gift from God to sinners

In a sense puts heaven near.

So like the carols sound arisen

Sung out with a shimmering light

For our selves and for our children

Merry Christmas all, Good Night!

A calico yarn

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I’m looking out for a cardigan sweater,

One that is knitted from calico yarn,

with black onyx buttons and deep empty pockets

to hold all my empathy some would like scorned.

Knitting the line with the purl to the row,

ending then starting afresh just below.

Building a comfort, an armor of sorts

guarding the kindness malignance would thwart.

I’m seeking out a cardigan sweater

something to wear among those filled with blame

for some others because they can’t justify

the differences that we all know but won’t name.

Perhaps, with a cable stitch, crossing the groups,

the pattern gets deeper and as such recoups

a bit more humanity. The color is broad

the transitions combining results aren’t as flawed.

This stitch and that stitch in confidence worn

a cardigan sweater made from calico yarn.

Curating

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When I was boy, I’d spend time under a towering southern pine. Whose needles cast a glare in the summer-lit sky and its points directed everywhere.

Now older, I travel here and there, and see the trees that stand aware and pause to take it in. The light that shimmers with the shade and curating the different shapes of leaves all made.

The oval spoon of plum and quince, or the linden with its sharpened tip. Formed to gather in the sun and rain, collected dew that slowly drips and drains.

The starfish shape of the sweetgum leaf, inspired to creativity. As poems with their structured phrase and red-emblazoned points in space.

The divided prongs from the pin oak leaf that grasps the memory of a summer breeze. The stacked order of the hickory, harkening to an autumn sea of yellow leaves.

Each one novel in its time and pressed in a book will hold its shine from birth to death. They grow, then die in cyclic breadth.

And through the time when leaves are felled, the needles of pine remain and tell with glistening light or captured snow – infinite points of where to go.

Outlier

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I stared into a pitch-black midnight
to write of emptiness in the dark.
A space of nothingness and naught
from which creation sprung in might.
In the void just out of sight
a moment not content, embarked.
The single flower in the pot,
a point, a speckling shared its light.
The space surrounding it recites
in motionless time when a moment harks.
A melody repeating on the spot,
a verse then opens with a different plight.
This thing with hopes that will ignite
and focus the poet on its spark,
and in the notion we see, besot –
the outlier is neither shy nor contrite.

****

A poem of inspiration to bring in 2022. I wish everyone a safe and happy new year. May it be everything you want and need.

Poteau (For Patricia)

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In the mornings we always welcomed the day looking at your Poteau Mountain.

And far away the mists crawling over its topmost trees towards the base –

the sun rays up through the field, a race.

A visual prompt of creation’s way, and you would say – it’s going to be is a pretty day.

Our conversation would turn a phrase while we drank our coffee

and up the hill, the blue-green tinted tree line spilled into oak and rock about halfway down.

In summer, with the evergreen on display – it always was a pretty day.

In autumn when the leaves turned red, we made a trek – the road ahead was rocky, steep,

We climbed the hills and look out on the valley’s thrills below. A cloud passed through the brush and stayed.  It blocked our view but didn’t ruin that pretty day.

A frost would settle winter mornings on the upper trees under a cloudless awning clear and blue. And as we sat behind a framed glass view, the window shared your mountain too.

With winter’s frigid accolades, you never ceased to smile and say – it sure is a pretty day.

Springtime storms would hang and cling, the thunder from your mountain sings a song of praise and grace.  The distant rumbling warned of storms, but you were never made forlorn or worn or gray.  Even this was such a pretty day.

Those mornings when you weighed your heart, did you ask God for each fresh start?

The mountain only in your view – a post -but sky and land beyond that too.

And all this scene of wondrous awe, the trees, the sky, the rocks and all

in your witness, don’t dismay –He said –

for here Patricia is your pretty day.  

Rain (rondelet)

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The rain fell hard

upon a pile of dirt and clay.

The rain fell hard

and water flowed as if to say

we cannot choose to stay this way.

and spread amongst our lives today

the rain fell hard.

In puddles, brown –

reflections of the sky retold

in puddles, brown

these ruptured teardrops sparkle bold

wrenched from the clouds, water cajoled,

so unlike the desolate loll

in puddles, brown.

When flowers bloom,

opening up in fragrant notes.

When flowers bloom,

and singing out from amber throats,

look to the azure sky that dotes,

waiting on a quickening dose

when flowers bloom.

Diversity

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A billion snowflakes fallen down; the sky’s pale light sings them aground.

A population filled with wist over winter’s grey-ness, quiet bliss.

Each one designed of fractal flair; together in surrounding air

covering grass and plants and trees

woven in a blanket freeze.

In silence of a winter sleep

until the sun and tulips peep.

Then drips of water feed the ground and life returns in sights and sound.

And something made so singular moves in tandem in the world.

Solitary beauty at its birth –

flowing through to share its worth.

And so in moments cold, dispersed- all in beauty shown diverse

leads to something else, embrace it differently someplace.

Sowing (for Christmas)

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It’s all La-dee-dah until it’s go-go-go.

There’s not much spirit unless there’s snow,

Ornamental twinkles in lights aglow

with fa la lahs and the ho ho ho.

And joy and hope and peace are hung,

reminders of a flower sprung

in our midst. Now with our tongues

the joy, the hope and peace are sung.

Yet those upon this world are tired.

Each and every age transpired

without the love and peace desired,

despite the joy and hope that’s squired.

Though darkness settles, spends the night,

morning always brings us light.

Thus we hope. Our homes bedight

with ornamental air alight.

And in this yearly journey shown,

though some desist and some bemoan,

mankind’s joy and hope are sown

and Love is sprung again and grown.

In kind

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We were asked some time ago
to cover our ears and let it go.
As sounds of untruths filled the air
boasting promise (false), laid bare.
Asking us to ignore it all
to hear no evil was the call.

Then one day, we’re cautioned: wise
to keep our distance so no one dies,
to simply cover our mouths to spare.
We close salons and bars, daycare
so those at risk among us most
won’t pay excessive, deadly costs.

And whilst we’re dealt pandemic blows,
mankind’s poor character flaws disclose
an image in the mirror mulled.
Never spoken, but we’ve culled
an awful sinful, biased slant
that fills a cup we won’t decant.

And here we are today with this:
in basic calls we are remiss.
Simple facts to call out lies
and to hold account the ones who try.
To care enough to save the weak
and act on what our family speaks.

No politics that I can name
outweighs this simple, common claim:
mere decency should be our aim.