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purpose

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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.

answer

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there is no answer
only trees with spindled branches
that vanish in the beauty of the green

and trails that wander off
behind the distant hillsides, pastoral scenes.

no remedy – with wind between
the spruce’s fingerlings
since moved along to coastal shores and things.

no antiphon in plummeting
in ocean depths – it’s just serene
and emptied of all guff
and echo that there’s ever been.

no pleas as silent offerings proceed
to culminating crests, and heights convened.

and this, the peace of things
that is to be –
the answers all in all, are unforeseen.

chalk

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I use chalk to smudge the lines a bit
and shade the parts where I don’t feel I fit.

Fermatas placed to hold the chords in time
while I dance around cadenzas dipped in rhyme.

I’d rather stare and watch the sun in parallax,
circumventing pain and disappointment – that’s the fact.

Beauty walks, and moves, and sings in form
and transits over paths that I have worn,

shows indifference to my charm- my soul in kind
and I have nothing left save yearning in my mind.

And these, the words of someone sacrificed
to life and how I bleed on paper, less precise.

To stand and sing of resignation, it is mine,
and using chalk can smudge and blur the line.

lagniappe

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Because mornings emerge from misty bayous
and moss that hangs and touches the sky-
a reflection in glass.
Because the thickness in the air wraps
the sunlight and holds it close.
The moments are a drawl, and a legacy of
stillness waits-
it waits between each drawing breath,
lingers between each morning glory
and rain lily-
a sweet kiss from a drowsy boo
and its momentary entanglements.
Even before the first note sounds
the blues, there is beauty conjured in the
slim to none spell-
and it is some kind of wonderful,too.

a foothold in the daisies

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The clouds are just now learning how to speak.
There’s a foothold in the daisies,
and a slow descent of water from the creek
The sun is rising amber, slow and weak.

The melody of morning turns
it’s ear upon the repeat cooing dove
and smells of honeysuckle
wafted in from somewhere down the grove.

A single tuft of flowers out among
the complete scene of hurried traffic,
other places here and in-between-
a foothold in the daisies –
a shared embrace,
devotion to a yellow speck in space.

And safe return to where began this whole mystique,
and I am learning -just now- how to speak.

arc

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A camber in her first and last embrace
and welling tears I wipe against my face.
Lingered time, that passes under breath
and desires to leave are changing less and less.
Words do not exist to tell this tale,
just kisses, fumbling hands, and hearts impaled.

abandon

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snow melting abandon
stenciled-
meant to carry away
the weep of wintry
bitterness.
drops that melted
from ice gripped
with steadfast assurances.
each drip an escapee
of purpose,
prone to wander
and feel its own
way, with only the sound
of sequent kin
that silence with distance.
winding catacombs
lead to some outcome,
to a gathering of likeness
that feeds the living
and absorbs
the dissolute elements
of the dead.

Bird, bees, flowers, trees

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The bird that spreads it’s wings to fly
aloft in winds and lullabyes
will often finds a hiding place
with little bustle, subtle grace.

The bee at work, no time to spare-
buzzing, fluttering, from here to there
to stigmas moist with other fare
but not a sound to make aware-

The flower blossomed, spread in view
with pink and yellow, vibrant hues –
and undulating sun and dew
confessed in morning light, anew.

And ever green, the pine tree stands
accepting flight with steady hands.
Each bough abets, make no mistake
and comforts those who stay awake.

Diligence

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Encompassed by her stare
as she reveals a confident esprit,
and wanders in my mind to be omniscient,
salient for me.

Deluged by her rhapsodic reign
and drenched in love time and again,
a dousing seems a welcomed bane
upon my weary soul and stain.

Subject to her word and tome
complete and perfect, craved and honed,
every act a sin – atoned
and riddled cunning, bone-to-bone.

in a room with over-sized books

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In a room with over-sized books
and a dungy wing-back chair,
I am invited to sit
and look at maps of Belize
and Montenegro, tables espousing
cotton production
in the deep south, where is the world’s leading
smelter of tin,
or diagrams of different zoological
families.
Garden paths of azaleas
in a gulf between tall oaks,
Photographs of Lennon on holiday
and Lenin in state,
and the virtues of handmade linen,
all woven and attentive
to my browsing.
Bindings jut and overhang
from the shelves,
like spanish moss speaking,
knowing that I choose the ones
who pronounce themselves
and embrace my turn
of the page.

********
I was spending time in a library this week, when I happened on
the oversized book collection in a quiet room with
a single chair. So much about this collection and this
environment spoke to me.