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.
As with the angels that caroled
His arrival in stable, bare.
Praises, Alleluia, Hallelujah!
A King is there.
And with the shepherds,
Who worshipped with humble hearts,
Praises, Alleluia, Hallelujah!
The Savior has come. To start
God’s kingdom on earth,
A baby, a birth
Of Hope and Salvation
Of Love, Joy and Mirth.
As with the Wise Men
That wandered in wonder of stars,
Praises, Alleluia, Hallelujah!
We’ll find where we are.
At Christmas, our Hopes revive!
Yuletide, our Joy is alive!
Open your hearts and sing
Tell every living thing-
Praises, Alleluia, Hallelujah
The birth of a King!
********************
While this is unabashedly joyful (with many exclamation points), Christmas is a joyful time. I can just imagine this being sung with brass and tympani.
My hopes for you (if you do or do not celebrate Christmas)is a happy, blessed day.
A very Merry Christmas!
I want to see matters before
the sun rises, in a way
like mad hatters -yet still analyzes.
I want to walk slowly in
view of the mountains,
with flocks of black starlings
murmuring – counting.
I need to retrace you with
scripts of profession, the
kind that embraces, encourages –
freshens.
And here in my twisting, revolving
release- enlisting your
breathless entreaties – I cease.
glitter gold,
and watch reflections
patter on,
as specks surround
and attach beyond.
scintillate,
in flashing glows
the ions of your
aureate tongues.
move,
and flicker
until your crests
bestow a shade of flare-
and spread this frenzied
throe upon the night’s
affair.
whereabouts, then do you see
your comfort, lazing –
hushed, set free.
Among the forest wood so tall?
you’d have to climb to view it “all”
And next to this an open glade
with grass and shrubs and little shade-
surrounded by a green brocade.
I’d seek the quietness in space
with wild oats, primrose, queen anne’s lace-
So lay with me in flower blooms
in this, an isolated room
away from plain, removed from fear
staring at the sky, austere
at its inception-
this poem for affection.
In a field of flowers, blue
she wanders free and rapt,
taking in the fragrant hues-
a path she had not mapped.
Gentle hands reach out to blooms
caressing each in passing
and her random walk resumes
in heaven, without asking.
In the same field, ambles he
who takes a different way-
Spying first the large oak tree
that lingers by the quay,
Stolid-fixed- he moves toward
a vast expanse that speaks-
an oceanside of blue has lured
him to the edge he seeks.
Each, their own entrancement made
as journeys intersect-
She, from wand’ring wood to glade
and he, from larger treks.
Both gone seeking greater things
away from their familiar,
Habitating different strings
yet seeking bonds that whisper.
And there on cliff-side, past the glen
two lovers stood, amore and yen-
led there in divergent ways
and destiny to laud and praise.
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.
the mystery that drives and weaves
and captures all she feels and grieves-
inward lies her heart perfecting
both her days and nights, dissecting
with a tiny mirrored hand-
her sphere, it grows -afflicts the strand
which twines and knots and preys alone
and none will notice, deftly sewn
just like auroras, bold and lithe
she wanders – spreads – abates in sight.
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 