Tag Archives: Charms

nostalgia

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.

emerald, as I exit

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.

Stills

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.

written while considering a photograph of a poet

in that she kneels
by the hawthorne in spring, leaning in
to absorb the blossoms
-their balm and velvet-
in silent acquiescence.

her own shoots and sprays
grow inward
and she seeks a dovetail,
tallied to share her joy and rage,

and calm the gathering in her soul.

******************************
I happened upon a photograph of Sylvia Plath as a teenager, sitting by a flowering bush, and began to consider a poem. I rather like this, it is very uncomplicated – but foreboding in a way. She was a brilliant poet. Thanks for visiting.

Cups

I seek a magnum for my words
to hold and season, spoon and stir
a cup to ferment, provocate
to frenzy – undeterred.

Then sometimes I just need a plot
to plant and tend, to give a shot
No rubs and snags, organic-like
a garden – not a lot.

Yet, in this morning comes a zone
where dreams are sparse and I’m alone.
My words seem languished – decomposed
to less than I condone.

I place them in a tumbler, red
with pangs and fancy, joy and dread
then agitate to swirl and sway
these aches- the ones unread.

I seek a chalice clear, a sprite
to hold my poetry in sight
to mesmerize and -yes- atone
for tarnished silver blight.

Lucent

The underbrush, dingy and hewn
beneath a stack
of loose forest-

what we gathered in late afternoon
while the sun hung orange under red smears of
a deepening blue.

Sparks drifted and cackled
into something conjured-
wafted from burning sticks,

and we watched them woo
with embers, now
in a conflagration
alive and luring the night air.

It was a synonymous path.

.

celestial

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.