Tag Archives: confidence

present perfect

I do not wish to know
tomorrow’s faint and slow
ascent, nor do I care to see
if yesterday was lithe with glee –
Wasn’t last year so obsessed
and burdensome?
We can attest.
And back ten years, if sighted, could
we not have worried where we stood?

To keeping in the ‘now on scene’,
I hope that all my words are keen
and opening new each day
-as morning glories say –

that past affronts have gone to sour
and I embrace a blooming flower
that opens with the sun.

And here I have begun.

answer

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.

a foothold in the daisies

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.

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.

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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.

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.

flashback

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.