Sometimes, I weep, yet cannot
see the edge’s line and filigree.
Add to this – dim appeal,
obtuse affection, not fresh not real.
Creek beds flow in pouring rain
tears evolve, invoking pain.
A polish on the floor reflects
the one light on, that one affects.
A square persona, mirrored there
in lust’rous promise, staid and clear.
Such consequence – o tainted eyes
beneath a sad and milky sky.
When the leaves are swept away at night
and the chill cleaves to me,
I am reminded that I am descended
from those who worked the land.
tilled soil – tossed stone
to harvest, afford a life of
growing and yearning, splitting
and churning a song of origins
as a lantern tilted
sheds light on enclosed spaces
of circumstance. Places where poems
are seen, but not written.
Tuneful sounds once heard in the labors
of daylight, lulled by passing clouds
and mute when night comes on. Dirt is rinsed
from beneath fingernails and sleep arrives early
with a crisp quilt. Night whispers
it’s own beginning and the wind tosses aside
that which grips me.
I want to see matters before
the sun rises, in a way
like mad hatters -yet still analyzes.
I want to walk slowly in
view of the mountains,
with flocks of black starlings
murmuring – counting.
I need to retrace you with
scripts of profession, the
kind that embraces, encourages –
freshens.
And here in my twisting, revolving
release- enlisting your
breathless entreaties – I cease.
Bare trees anticipate
holding snow – amassed
in silent devotion
to the aesthetic
adorning the view
once green – now
lifeless and worn-
white poinsettias look best
when surrounded by red,
reflections from polished silver
are most notable
in darkness.
dropped ornaments
that shatter live on
as recollected ones,
objects to decorate
our mind’s branches.
glitter gold,
and watch reflections
patter on,
as specks surround
and attach beyond.
scintillate,
in flashing glows
the ions of your
aureate tongues.
move,
and flicker
until your crests
bestow a shade of flare-
and spread this frenzied
throe upon the night’s
affair.
glisten-
shine so bright,
open up your heart
and write
your songs. They carry on
in spite
of rumbles, chatter,
hate and fright.
envision-
all the world
in cheer
with ringing tones
-crystal clear-
a clarion for all
to hear-
a star
a beacon
-listen.
A silver weave of bangles
that you placed on your wrist
held a star, a snowflake
and proof of your fire-kissed
soul. I could only speak words
that lingered on my tongue
and could not see them
clasped to silver- hung-
and fighting the flames
of your restless heart.
Pressed upon my mind,
Such are the things that fuel and start
the creation of gemstones.
In a field of flowers, blue
she wanders free and rapt,
taking in the fragrant hues-
a path she had not mapped.
Gentle hands reach out to blooms
caressing each in passing
and her random walk resumes
in heaven, without asking.
In the same field, ambles he
who takes a different way-
Spying first the large oak tree
that lingers by the quay,
Stolid-fixed- he moves toward
a vast expanse that speaks-
an oceanside of blue has lured
him to the edge he seeks.
Each, their own entrancement made
as journeys intersect-
She, from wand’ring wood to glade
and he, from larger treks.
Both gone seeking greater things
away from their familiar,
Habitating different strings
yet seeking bonds that whisper.
And there on cliff-side, past the glen
two lovers stood, amore and yen-
led there in divergent ways
and destiny to laud and praise.
it is only this –
a single droning way,
a backdrop for breathing, luring and lively
all in red or green or blue-
pink or yellow ribbons that remind us
of someone lost.
it is only this.
a surface, serene and affable
sometimes glowing and thinned
infinite until shattered.
and you step out
bleeding a bit of color
fresh from a palate.
it is only this.
Here I sit, invoking morning’s grace
without a photo to remind me of your face,
I realize each feature in my mind.
The light appears and outlines all the trees
your eyes-they blink, the soul behind them sees
and opens up to me, and then I find
the sky- expanse- turns light from dark to blue.
This advent of your beauty so accrues
and imprints on my memory, all combined.
The subtle pink that sunrise paints a-sky
reveals a blushing temperament, and why
I can’t remember it – in kind.
The flowing chestnut curls that so beguiled
my colored dreams, the shadow of your smile-
they fill my morning view and so remind
me of the gracefulness I laud and rhyme.
Taps and Ratamacues 