emerald,
which is
all I see in a memory
passing a hallway and a staircase.
to a glass door.
yet in the moments after
the vision of her dress-
her hair, streaming in cinnamon
and obeying the pace,
the sounds of her walk
her lips moving to an unassisted conversation
these details attend and amass
a likeness,
but always with emerald first
as I exit.
Knowing the value of such blooms,
she recorded the moment of their heyday.
Just when the cannas overflowed
and the pear trees erupted-
the flushed colors dotted her mind
so that she could memorize each cast and tone
and whisk them onto winter’s canvas
smears of rust and scarlet
over rifts,
wan and chill.
******************
Autumn is passing its apex now. It always brings with it a sense of nostalgia, a sense of loss, an appreciation of beauty…These are some quick thoughts about the season brought on by viewing some recent photographs taken by a blogging friend. Thanks for visiting.
In her imaginary distraction,
everything
stops as she looks around.
She selects a turn,
the one of coloring
and innuendo-
a highlighter pink
in the field of grey-
intimate overtones
of a sacred familiar-
and she pursues it.
She captures the banded words,
a gathering of flowers
to fill her hands
and draw in close,
holding her breath,
when exhalation
means
absolution.
just because
a spark burst
in sun-ly ways-
an excimer flare-
a dazzle- beware
the aftermath
of this exclaimated
instant-
when the airs
are gone – vaporizing
and in the moment,
extemporizing-
a crumbly proclivity
appears and departs
in a fluted nigh,
and we are left with
a notion-
nary embers or sighs.
*************
I do enjoy the sounds of words. Also, I enjoy the freedom, as a poet, to create a “word” where none exists -if it suits my purpose for conveying a mood or contributing to a sound collage. This poem, I think, does both. Thanks for reading.
Could you pass upon a poem
with this, the textured symmetry
of drooping tulips in the mist
or waves crashed in, that fan -set free?
A yellow bird, that comes to rest
inside a cage of brass and wire,
to let it come and go seems fit
a spark, a stir, a thought inspired.
A red bench in a sea of gold.
A row of rocks, precise and small.
Traipsing steps, a reflection seen
leaving tracks in waterfalls.
A living, breathing cache that blooms
with meadowsweet and lace and phlox –
the heather in the garden
where the blue gate never locks.
An angled grain in wood or wings
of butterflies, with flecks that scroll,
could you catch and hold this poem
inside, and bind it to your soul?
interlacing threads
in the tissue of her time
she spent long intervals
on cross strokes
slanting down
and open form,
committing each letter
of woe
to a fabric-
bound to make something
beautiful.
Taps and Ratamacues 