Tag Archives: imagery

unwound

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Rolling on the floor, a speckled ball of yarn,
chased by cats, and batted back and forth;
’round the chair and wedged so not to budge.

Provocateur, unravel as you will-
the line of thread that travels here and yon-
a serpentine attests your elegance.

A moment’s play- your coil and path supply
diverting pleasure – here and there – unwound
around and ’round the floor you dart.

Between the wall and shelves, in spaces thin
since come to rest – and sameness- yet again
Await to wind and wrap – your future holds

another track, unfurl and ring and flaunt.

*********************
I set out to write a sestina this morning – quite a challenge for a Saturday morning- but the word scheme never quite worked out for me. I ended up with this, which has no formality to it, other than 3 line verses and some nice lines, alliteration, and hopefully some back and forth in the poem. I don’t own a cat, but I suspect watching one play with a ball of yarn might be enjoyable. I was thinking that the yarn might get bored easily if all it had to do was be batted around and unwound until it found a resting place – waiting to be rewound and put into play again.

emerald, as I exit

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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.

onliest

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A red door
with plate glass casements ’round
enclosing a deepened vestibule-
and shadows on white walls are bound.

bold-faced clouds that billow
into thunderstorms on Sundays-
woodland sunflowers that line
shadowed waterfront lanes.

alone under
a darkened rift of stars –
in wonder of their stillness,
yet know not what they are

it is the wind that blows from the shore
out to sea.

it is the light that steals from obscurity

it is the embrace of an onliest thing

it is the sum of these
that sways me on a quiet string.

culminating moments

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Sometimes the best place to be is inside the mind of a writer,
as an undeveloped character just observing the story as it erupts.

Sometimes the best place to be is on a field, just ahead
of a brewing thunderstorm, feeling the wind as it sweeps the grasses.

Other times it is best to be there when the rain is stopping
and the sound of thunder -far-away- rumbles on an unseen field.

Sometimes to lie on a field, and watch the stars appear.
At times, to wake in the night, and hear the silence
as it lulls you back to sleep.

Then sometimes, when the sun-rays fan between houses
capturing the morning in a blooming progression, it is best to be there.

Sometimes it is best to be the pivotal word in a sentence
from your love, her inflection and enunciation drawing a painting of the next moment,

where it is best to be.

assent

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the rain crept in
at night –
these are stranger puddles,
reflecting
the morning brume, battering
the ground with purpose
and the beginnings of a day.

***

the sky
as it divulges
a mood, bathed in muted temperament,
each second brings a new
brilliance,
as seen by
its reflection
in pools of water.

***

in the guise of a bond,
that which comes down
must return
and a kinship is embraced
and eminence reflected.

an extant poem

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Could you pass upon a poem
with this, the textured symmetry
of drooping tulips in the mist
or waves crashed in, that fan -set free?

A yellow bird, that comes to rest
inside a cage of brass and wire,
to let it come and go seems fit
a spark, a stir, a thought inspired.

A red bench in a sea of gold.
A row of rocks, precise and small.
Traipsing steps, a reflection seen
leaving tracks in waterfalls.

A living, breathing cache that blooms
with meadowsweet and lace and phlox –
the heather in the garden
where the blue gate never locks.

An angled grain in wood or wings
of butterflies, with flecks that scroll,
could you catch and hold this poem
inside, and bind it to your soul?

streams

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the lamp shade
is colored with a depth
of incandescence,
the way a face
shows
a heart, flushed
and swelling
with crescendo –
a glimmering crest
crowning the moment.

************************
Some stream of consciousness writing this morning…I had nothing on my mind as I sat down to write. I looked up from the computer and saw the light 😉

Who doesn’t like it when something nice just appears out of nowhere?

My writing output has slowed of late, due to work, family obligations, and life in general. I always feel a little better when I can craft a thought, a vision, or a feeling in a poem. It is like my heart shakes off a bit of the coldness that can creep in. Saturdays are good mornings for that. I’m grateful. Thanks for visiting.

lift

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in the hollows
and meadows
you call me with the thrushing
of pine needles to inspire

to climb
and place my steps
on familiar ground
pulsating with desire.

bring me closer
to a shared ascent-
where your words, once nestled
in the horizon, peek out
among the clover and the briar.

and we hold each other in the glow
of sunset’s flushed attire.

Whether

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calling amid the
intermittent drops
that fall and soak the ground
or
seeing entangled
clouds appear
with the morning light.
not
just as a backdrop
of weather,
but a welcoming
posture
I see coming
into view
awaiting entrance,
her subtle hand
on glass.

soft shoulder

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in a moment of thankfulness,
on the arcing turn
where it may be
unstable, and precarious to be
on such an edge-
one part cusp and adamant
yet agreeable
one part adrift, roaming
yet anchored
to each other-
in this moment of his gratitude
held while leaning
into her arching turn.

*********************
A sign I see every day driving to work that warns of the roadway perils became a poem.