Tag Archives: imagery

purpose

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

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

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

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.

Bird, bees, flowers, trees

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.

in a room with over-sized books

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.

From

There on,
her window sill blossoms
with planter box flowers
of slow jazz and Stanleys.
Her hand in the sunlight,
its daughter, light and blue.
Of red poppies,
love and forever –
displayed in tune.
And sometimes her crush
of the embraceable gypsy,
-of you
and your charming
pinned notes of heart’s spade
and peonies,
cause her to croon and cascade.
Her fingers lace
through clusters and letters,
still photographs of the
of scarlet fragments her
tears leave in the dirt – along
with the packet
of field daisy seeds
from me.

Details

I remember the blue in her eyes,
though often they were green –
a wistfulness, when she tilted her head,
sentiment at the seams.

Her fingertips, absently tracing the rim
of a cup or a saucer, or both.
The governed expanse of the contour
revealing as is, clothed.

To lean in, whisper lure and yearning,
so bold and sacred, so preferred –
then settle back in tidal fashion
sands and beaches bared – secured.

I recall the mounting balance
that melody and rhythm bind,
a song there at the nucleus
hastened,
fresh and primed.

I have felt the blue of her ocean,
my eyes remember the scene.
And I am the breeze that comes off the water
pensive and longing my dreams.

Lay

Careful-
With that song
and dance, the one that tweaks their
minds. By chance,
do you rent your inspiration?
Your soul, your lust and legislation
all inclusive-
gone buffet.

A little here and there’s Okay.

Take salad tongs
to prep your bowl
with crawfish, okra,
mac and rolls.
And when the trip down line’s complete,
you feel the ache swell in your feet.

Then I could sit and give massage
til metaphors spill
and rhymes barrage.
The song transforms from swing to pop
a subtle lay with ballad stops.

The night with moonlight’s shade is set,
and you and I,

we pirouette.

footprints

Yesterday, I cut back the burning bush
on the hill beside my house.

It never spoke to me.
Not once.

It had grown higher
than I stand, unchecked
for now thirteen years,
and never commanded me
to remove my shoes.

It is recommended
that the wings be trimmed in late winter,
before new growth begins.
The fly-away branches-gone now. Just
fragments discarded on some sad morning
and a rooted scrag in place
awaiting rebirth.

I see no divine providence
or transcription of holiness
in this. Hope will follow
in the spring.

Now, a deepening chill ebbs
-in vain.
Winter is not yet over,
and I tarry in the garden
alone.