Tag Archives: love

Notions

In a gift for someone that I once knew-
A few moments wrapped
in crisp paper with string.
each one a mating of calm and called.

Intent on these penetrating emotions-
they are patterns of poetry from memories
underneath the neat taped corners.

They could be jumbled and incoherent,
but I prefer them pressed and bound
and self-contained.
Thumb-pressure creased,
Holding the pieces
firmly together.

Notions of affection
convened for her disposal
will be mailed
in the morning.

***********
A reworking of a poem that I first wrote in 2006.

I find it in the feet of bell tones

I find it in the feet of bell tones,
after sorbing the sound as struck and deep.

I see the auric crest at the tip of leaves
in the moments of late summer’s wanton eve.

I feel the arc that bows in honor
of poetry heard, and hopes that won’t cease.

I hear it in the intake of calm
from the instant of lighting, the droning that sleeps.

It caresses the silence just beyond music,
and lingers on fingertips framed in release.

It walks in the tawny remembrance of noon-tide,
and ploys in the finish of our masterpiece.

And sounding the whisper of midnight and morning,
the tolling of hours when time passes, sweeps

away the cache of conflagration
leaving morsels we should keep.

I find it in the feet of bell tones,
with sounds that amble soft and sweet.

awaken

Sometimes,
I want to fall apart-

spontaneously disassemble
and disconnect into hundreds
of small fragments,
interlocking of course-
like puzzles of autumn afternoons
just out of the box.

The ones with rushing streams
that leave the edge of the frame
to some unseen bend.

The leaves are gilded and bronzed,
ready to separate
upon the first overnight rain.

And water droplets cling
to porch eaves, just at the crest
when tension breaks.

And we embrace
with a lingered kiss,
and we are knitted to keep from
unraveling.

Air

Can you walk among the grasses, ornamental in your step?
Unseen, wavering in the flutter, moving with the ebb.

Do you glide among the flushing, hues of sanguine be your veil?
Camouflaging simper, as you sweep through with avail.

Will you pace ahead in rhythm, accents driving your advance?
Pausing, as an instrument, to cause my soul to dance.

Opening a gateway, hearing sounds of air
watching, waiting for a glimpse of allure unaware.

Can you wander through my field of view, as I write a verse?
Something about movement, and a guise you can’t rehearse.

Espial

I find that beauty walks along
the pathway paved with grit and stone
hovering with each stride.
Moved with light, so to prevail
above the fragments, dirt and shale-
a footfall in each instance, hails
her balance undenied.

And as I watch her sunlight glow,
her poise and pace, from head to toe,
where she walks and ploys-
I am drawn with nothing said,
no words to compensate ahead
and on the pathway, I am lead
in muses lame and coy.

So watching beauty, as she spies
her lover in the western skies
fade just out of sight,
I wander in the settling dun,
scuffling, as I ramble on
and wonder then, without the sun
if beauty rules the night.

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.

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.

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.

arc

A camber in her first and last embrace
and welling tears I wipe against my face.
Lingered time, that passes under breath
and desires to leave are changing less and less.
Words do not exist to tell this tale,
just kisses, fumbling hands, and hearts impaled.

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.