Under a cyclical canopy,
they have a quiet confidence
in leading their kind.
Whether sitting or standing,
they can tread the leaves for a lifetime,
in thrashing storms, midnight silence and droning dusk.
Their own voices muted.
We can’t hear their music,
or their oration,
or their soliloquies,
judging them dead, or worse,
having not lived.
Who knows their songs but them?
-and God-
To whom even the rocks cry out
amid the falling trees.
and new seedlings.
Tantum ergo.
I watched them amass
in the end zone section
at the football game,
and I thought of them as dots on lines
moving to an endpoint,
accumulating momentum as they went.
It was not Eden, but it seemed ideal
when the band played songs that everyone knew
and they all sang along
in short bursts of unity and cooperation.
Then they lost themselves in the festive atmosphere,
trying to be heard
as individuals in the rushing mob noise.
Later, they were given apples to eat
from a wax-coated box.
Afterward, everyone walked away
in different directions
just as he or she deemed.
Each went to their own endpoint,
some accelerating and others not,
still seeking wisdom in each their own way.
It is one of those spring days where
the moon rises early,
while the sun sags low in the sky.
The trees are in that ‘between’ stage,
starkly barren
against the blue sky,
but with a sheen of green.
My son and I walk the levee by a lake.
We look out at solid white sailboats,
though one has an orange sail
-a challenge to just to be different.
I walk slightly ahead of him,
because he doesn’t like people
to walk behind him.
I show him my swagger.
He shows me his zombie shuffle.
We both raise a hand
to block the sun,
as we trace its declination
on the water.
He hums Eye of the Tiger
-to encourage the stair joggers
making the journey to the top-
and says he can only remember the tagline.
I think of the song
from Beethoven’s famous ninth symphony,
and move ahead
with a shuffle and a swagger.
Expect colder temperatures tomorrow,
with breezes and occasional gusts
as clouds roll into the valley.
Inimical words
said in harsh tones.
Rumblings of cold and dampness
chase away the songbirds at dawn
and leave a heaviness in the air,
before a pattern of
droplets on the grey sidewalk.
Yet, for all their blustering,
the clouds will simply move
towards the horizon,
leaving with a windward song
of whistling reeds,
thrashing branches,
and percussive accent.
The remains are of a movement
with felled limbs,
just scattered, silent instruments
of a raucous symphony
and the players have left the stage
for other venues.
Expect this change tomorrow
with songs both loud and slow,
the almanac tells me so.
Fairer than all the rest which there appeare
Though all their beauties joynd together were;
How then can mortal tongue hope to expresse
The image of such endlesse perfectnesse?
–Faire is the Heaven by Edmund Spenser
Give me time
and I will give a song,
I suppose it’s in my blood
and courses through me.
with rhythmic flow.
I see harmony,
intercalating with the air
I breathe.
And as modulations blossom
between the lilac and lavender,
and subtle melodies meander,
I recall music,
when the smooth petals of light
silhouette above her symphony.
What essential language calls a dream.
***********************
April was National Poetry Writing Month, where participants wrote a draft poem a day. I completed the entire month (for the first time in 4 tries). It was fun, and I ended up with some nice bits and pieces to work with. This one is actually the combination of two different drafts from NaPo, along with some revision.
Cutting snowflakes in the sun
with different faces
-not just one-
to melt away
a frozen shun.
Trimmed paper snowflakes, cut and run
across the window pane.
Memories hung in noonday rain.
Simple snowflakes, drifting down,
to light upon a waiting tongue.
Nestling in to thaw and wane.
But after nightfall’s roll begun,
what’s taken and remembered, one,
was making snowflakes in sun.
*************
April is National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo). I wrote this one last year (during NaPo 2010), and have been working on it some recently.
It’s all very mysterious
how things work inside molecules,
the clusters of grapes and cherries
surrounding an unseen core.
Whether hidden bonds elongate or contract,
whither severing or uniting,
-with sounds of conception and formation-
there must be rules governing
their creation and future collaborations.
Or they could be tenets of faith,
-just like when
daffodils lean into the sunlight,
lovers linger in a first kiss,
or songs echo in cathedral rafters.
Be respectful of other fishermen,
Do not raise your voice,
As it will frighten the fish away.
Do not cast your line in the shallows
As it will catch on roots and stumps
And snap.
No fish will be caught.
And so we whisper in the shallows
Barely heard above the crickets
And lapping tides
We never catch a thing
As the day passes
Except each other’s happiness
Time and time and time again.
Pulling soundwaves in melodic precision,
she floats with wings
delicately hanging upon a blue note
sailing phrases that color the air
with pleasantness and care.
Drawing the collective consciousness in song,
harmony and crescendo
stack and build
toward a driven conclusion.
Pulling and drawing
are no longer necessary,
as it rolls and moves
of its own volition,
and she simply glides
to smooth silence.
Taps and Ratamacues 