it begins as a wisp
neither taut nor explicit
a scribbled idea
on a plain yellow post-it,
sitting for weeks
til the stickiness faded
then moved ’round the table
it’s purpose degraded
and ultimately lands
in pile, curled – misled
like so many of my thoughts
of desire go unread.
Sometimes, I weep, yet cannot
see the edge’s line and filigree.
Add to this – dim appeal,
obtuse affection, not fresh not real.
Creek beds flow in pouring rain
tears evolve, invoking pain.
A polish on the floor reflects
the one light on, that one affects.
A square persona, mirrored there
in lust’rous promise, staid and clear.
Such consequence – o tainted eyes
beneath a sad and milky sky.
When the leaves are swept away at night
and the chill cleaves to me,
I am reminded that I am descended
from those who worked the land.
tilled soil – tossed stone
to harvest, afford a life of
growing and yearning, splitting
and churning a song of origins
as a lantern tilted
sheds light on enclosed spaces
of circumstance. Places where poems
are seen, but not written.
Tuneful sounds once heard in the labors
of daylight, lulled by passing clouds
and mute when night comes on. Dirt is rinsed
from beneath fingernails and sleep arrives early
with a crisp quilt. Night whispers
it’s own beginning and the wind tosses aside
that which grips me.
2015 was a strange and pivotal year.
Early this year, I was unemployed, job searching, writing, baking, painting, and cooking. I worked on a chapter book of poems that I self-published on Amazon (Accidental Songs). It was a challenge, and I’ve still got a lot to learn. I hope to do another one soon.
In the spring, I became employed! So I wrote less, baked and cooked less, had nothing to paint (all rooms were done). I planted tomatoes and a single pepper plant. All did remarkably well! Lots of pasta sauce and salsa during the summer!
I still managed to finish NaPoWriMo, then probably averaged about a post a week on my blog. In retrospect, I delved a lot more into rhyme and meter this year than in the past. I gained some new followers, some real, some not … ;). Thanks to all who discovered and followed my blog in 2015.
In the summer, my eldest son got married! Beautiful wedding. Wonderful time. Great daughter-in-law! Then they moved all the way across the country… 😦
Then the rest of the year just flew by…
Things I would like to do as a writer(and not a writer) in 2016:
And that concludes 2015. I wish you all a safe and happy New Year.
John
There is little left
of thread that ties and undulates
through fabric’d whys.
The whats have gone the wayside now
with time – the when –
don’t ask me how.
This never was infinite string
-ain’t what it used to be,
this thing that stitched my words
in canvas, starched and mended-
just as December ended.
So, with anew, fresh double cloth
the patterns swirl
without the gloss and keep me warm
in thoughts subdued
of music,
sweet – the words are true.
Bare trees anticipate
holding snow – amassed
in silent devotion
to the aesthetic
adorning the view
once green – now
lifeless and worn-
white poinsettias look best
when surrounded by red,
reflections from polished silver
are most notable
in darkness.
dropped ornaments
that shatter live on
as recollected ones,
objects to decorate
our mind’s branches.
between the nothing-dom
and something-ness
the lumens lean,
twisting axes-
a helix
in ideal darkness.
visionary – for both
a twinkle of wonder and awareness
of position-
modest in winds and poses
that once in a blue moon
align with man’s sense of mystery
on a coiling staircase.
shameless, peel back
in brazen arcs your wings-
dormant no more.
eased and alarmed
fire and calm
dark matters-
lights palm
her secrets.
Here I sit, invoking morning’s grace
without a photo to remind me of your face,
I realize each feature in my mind.
The light appears and outlines all the trees
your eyes-they blink, the soul behind them sees
and opens up to me, and then I find
the sky- expanse- turns light from dark to blue.
This advent of your beauty so accrues
and imprints on my memory, all combined.
The subtle pink that sunrise paints a-sky
reveals a blushing temperament, and why
I can’t remember it – in kind.
The flowing chestnut curls that so beguiled
my colored dreams, the shadow of your smile-
they fill my morning view and so remind
me of the gracefulness I laud and rhyme.
As for me,
when Cecilia sings –
the brightened notes
awaken the spring.
Leaves are new
among the trees,
when flow’rets bud
and winter flees.
Her eyes shine,
she gestures grace
and draws me in
to her dulcet embrace.
In this prime,
her melodies swarm
and hypnotize -captivate
poesy form.
Then compelled
by aires of allure,
I write simple verses-
the memory secure.
I pinpoint the moment the leaves turn to rust
and withhold the diadem – stay if I must –
the pliable eminence that tells of the why
does the moon hang its head in the opposite sky.
The walk of her beauty, in stride upon stride,
she disappears quickly, then looms and arrives.
I cannot yield over- abandon too soon-
and there in the opposite sky hangs the moon.
Breathe out and breathe in, both at tide and at crest
in the wisps of a manner that I can attest.
Her hand upon mine and our place in midair
the moon in the opposite sky, hanging there.
And after our silence, the heart might belie
save for memories, the moon, and the opposite sky.
Taps and Ratamacues 