I do not wish to know
tomorrow’s faint and slow
ascent, nor do I care to see
if yesterday was lithe with glee –
Wasn’t last year so obsessed
and burdensome?
We can attest.
And back ten years, if sighted, could
we not have worried where we stood?
To keeping in the ‘now on scene’,
I hope that all my words are keen
and opening new each day
-as morning glories say –
that past affronts have gone to sour
and I embrace a blooming flower
that opens with the sun.
And here I have begun.
Can you walk among the grasses, ornamental in your step?
Unseen, wavering in the flutter, moving with the ebb.
Do you glide among the flushing, hues of sanguine be your veil?
Camouflaging simper, as you sweep through with avail.
Will you pace ahead in rhythm, accents driving your advance?
Pausing, as an instrument, to cause my soul to dance.
Opening a gateway, hearing sounds of air
watching, waiting for a glimpse of allure unaware.
Can you wander through my field of view, as I write a verse?
Something about movement, and a guise you can’t rehearse.
I stood among you all,
at the edge of the wood,
a place of curiosity, felled
by absentminded fates.
So meant for heartier work
to weep away the runoff – dissent,
the wet and grime that infiltrates
the ground, I’m to abet
and keep your floor unfettered
from labor, a hollow sweep.
Explored and secreted with man’s lust
and beauty, pages turned and creased by hand.
Housing your scoundrel kin,
a respite from the elements, secure
yet open to view the sun
and neighboring vines, their vow unspoken.
And now, the years have culled me in
and I’ve become a part, somehow,
of green and life, of hope and fate
a place of refuge, I have been.
**********
#summerofprompts
I wrote this in response to poet Mary Biddinger’s recent prompt on Twitter, to write a nature poem from a non-human point of view… This is a combination of a nature poem with a childhood memory of a place in a nearby woods from my home.
There on,
her window sill blossoms
with planter box flowers
of slow jazz and Stanleys.
Her hand in the sunlight,
its daughter, light and blue.
Of red poppies,
love and forever –
displayed in tune.
And sometimes her crush
of the embraceable gypsy,
-of you
and your charming
pinned notes of heart’s spade
and peonies,
cause her to croon and cascade.
Her fingers lace
through clusters and letters,
still photographs of the
of scarlet fragments her
tears leave in the dirt – along
with the packet
of field daisy seeds
from me.
I remember the blue in her eyes,
though often they were green –
a wistfulness, when she tilted her head,
sentiment at the seams.
Her fingertips, absently tracing the rim
of a cup or a saucer, or both.
The governed expanse of the contour
revealing as is, clothed.
To lean in, whisper lure and yearning,
so bold and sacred, so preferred –
then settle back in tidal fashion
sands and beaches bared – secured.
I recall the mounting balance
that melody and rhythm bind,
a song there at the nucleus
hastened,
fresh and primed.
I have felt the blue of her ocean,
my eyes remember the scene.
And I am the breeze that comes off the water
pensive and longing my dreams.
My vista has left.
It got up and walked away,
taking its burgeoning poetry
and florets of blush
just beyond the hill-
where I last see a wrinkle
in the day.
Perhaps, it will sail away
and live at sea, content in knowing
that final curtains are best
without remorse. Every green patch
a relic of what was bewitching for me.
Tossed by storms in darkness,
with no one to notice.
Cowed in heat and sun.
Awoken in grey mists
that cling and impede
their run.
Maybe, one day it will land aground
after years adrift. Someone will see
and write words that begin a scene anew.
The beauty of the vista, adorned
with yearning – causes me to run
with all abandon
to meet the last wrinkle
of the day.
*****************
It is National Poetry Writing Month. I’ve participated in the past, but I don’t think I will this year – time will not allow me a post every day. I’ve been on a bit of a down-turn lately with inspiration for writing and experiencing my own emotional lows. This poem conveys a little of that struggle, the loss of “vision” – though I’m not sure I’m totally happy with it. I share it anyway, as a work in progress, because writing is something I must continue to do.
I don’t know why, I just do. I hope readers will continue to read.
All the best.
Yesterday, I cut back the burning bush
on the hill beside my house.
It never spoke to me.
Not once.
It had grown higher
than I stand, unchecked
for now thirteen years,
and never commanded me
to remove my shoes.
It is recommended
that the wings be trimmed in late winter,
before new growth begins.
The fly-away branches-gone now. Just
fragments discarded on some sad morning
and a rooted scrag in place
awaiting rebirth.
I see no divine providence
or transcription of holiness
in this. Hope will follow
in the spring.
Now, a deepening chill ebbs
-in vain.
Winter is not yet over,
and I tarry in the garden
alone.
This place I recall,
where I stacked chairs
against the wall, placed in rows
like a caravan,
readied as a train to resign.
Something empty,
forgotten in a room
with silver clouds and wooden tomes
describing Vesuvius and its ashes
falling.
That which buries me
only spalls, and I – willing for lightning
to strike –
don’t forget that
beneath the cumulonimbus,
one part rains,
another part shades.
In the green, a want
is growing – still and hopeful-
rapt. And knowing that the spell
is brief,
a pin-point moment -lust-
a thief glances – no-
it clutches
hold and deepens,
dilates what was touched
and seasoned.
Lines and edges, flecks and flux
core and flesh, entwined amok.
And somehow, moments in the end
a cured and coupled image
penned, a brush too lightly
to offend,
and focused there,
she starts again.
She is demure , with longing eyes
that watch scenes pass into relief.
Past-written and clothed in the moment
just before an outburst,
not a full-fledged flower,
but a blossom,
in paced steps-
dear to watch over
hands to hold-
leaned into,
fixed in secret,
there opened
and told.
Taps and Ratamacues 